Under the Cool Shade of Virtue
by TheCreatureInTheClearing
Summary: The Doors of Perception are locked and the Devil swallowed the key. What she once called reality is now deceiving and dangerous, what she called myth materialises before her eyes. An incredible shift in reality shakes the beliefs that kept her safe.
1. Prologue

_This is a story I came up with during an epiphany I had one day while sitting in my car in the longest holiday traffic jam I ever had the luck to experience. I arrived home and after tripping over my own feet and falling in the snow I came up with a wide grin on my face and a bulb above my head. I ran up to my room and had a sleepless, passionate night with my laptop (as in wrote all night, you dirty weasels!)_

_This story is not a nice one, obviously...none of my stories are, really._

_Probably the only "nice" things in it will be my sarcasm and my rather black humour._

_It will take into account all the books, except for the last chapter of DH, that "19 years later" part._

_The characters will not prance about in a sunny field of flowers that makes you gag; neither will they wallow in a smouldering pit of pathetic angst. I've seen to many good stories ruined by these extremes and I won't sabotage myself like that. There will be happiness; there will be pain, in equal, healthy rations._

_Hermione will not struggle unreasonably to get under Lucius's skin even after he pushes her away...literally. That is silly and unrealistic. Why would she cling to him without any justification except the writer's yearning to push them as fast as posible in each other's arms?_

_This is a story about prejudice from both parts._

_This is a story about seeing further and thinking differently, about removing that thick veil from one's eyes. And here I'm not referring only to the veil over Lucius's eyes..._

_Don't expect light hearted humour._

_Don't expect a happy ending._

_Don't expect a sad ending either._

_Don't expect an evil Malfoy changed by love._

_Don't expect a righteous Harry that understands and accepts anything that involves love._

_Don't expect a moronic Ron and an uncommonly bright Hermione. We are all intelligent and retarded in our own ways._

_Don't expect the Light's triumph over the Darkness._

_Or the Darkness over the Light._

_Don't expect anything._

_Don't assume anything._

_If you still are interested, if you still find this compelling enough I welcome you in._

_I open the doors for you to things unknown and feelings unthought-of._

_I will take the heavy coat of prejudice off your tired shoulders and only when you are done and want to leave this place you may take it back...If you still want it of course._

"When dealing with people, remember you are not dealing with creatures of logic, but with creatures of emotion, creatures bristling with prejudice, and motivated by pride and vanity" Dale Carnegie

"Hypocrisy - prejudice with a halo." Ambrose Bierce

"Truth - an ingenious compound of desirability and appearance."

* * *

**Under the Cool Shade of Virtue**

Prologue

* * *

The winding dirt and rock road held nothing impressive to most people. It was just the classical English country side road flanked by trees and wide naked fields with thorny hedges marking their borders. No one could have even imagined that between those plain, unimpressive fields, just beyond that spindly grove and behind that uninviting thicket over there, to the left, stood a town.

The milkman completely ignored the place, the thought that there were any milk drinkers there being outlandish to him, the local rural policeman thought that perhaps the only neighbour altercations that took place in those bushes were between badgers and foxes and those were most definitely not under his authority. There was of course the occasional passing householder that would wrinkle his nose in disgust at the weeds disrupting the otherwise geometrically divided land.

The postman passed this little entrance through the hedges without even giving it a second look not because there was no post to be delivered there, on contrary a lot of post was being sent to that unkempt, repulsive piece of land, just like a lot of milk and neighbour altercations were being consumed, but this postman didn't know that if he were to be born in that small town he would not have to earn his living by trudging through mud and rocks to reach a godforsaken cottage to deliver a godforsaken electricity bill.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He was in the middle of a rather steep climb on the road and he now had to return the services to his bicycle, taking its place and dragging it up the small hill. He checked his watch and exhaled contently when he saw that he had plenty of time to catch his breath and have a smoke. He pulled the bike up just a few metres more, to the top of the hill, propped it on the side of the road and sat himself in the grass.  
It was a beautiful summer day but unnaturally hot for this country and he was very annoyed by the sweat that trickled down his forehead. He blew smoke rings glaring at his bike, cursing his boss for being so environmentally conscious and making them deliver the post by bike. Then again he could understand the man's motivations; what with all the climate change that took place lately he probably wanted his conscious clean, especially since he had a family. He thought about his life, how at thirty-five he was unmarried and unlikely to get married as he had nothing to offer, no house of his own, no uncommonly developed intellect, no unknown dead rich uncle, he didn't even own a pet.

He looked down at his bent legs and grimaced at how scrawny they looked clad in his black uniform trousers. Not even that easy on the eye…he thought to himself dourly. He was very tall, very pale and very stringy; his uniform looked more like it was wrapped around a clothes hanger than on a human being. He found some consolation when he thought about his drinking nights with his mates and the occasional tavern wench he would find solace with. A wide grin spread the thin skin on his face.

His peace was suddenly disrupted though and he jumped slightly at the sound of loud voices all talking at once. He stood up and craned his neck down the hill to see what the reason for this entire racket was. It took a while for the owners of the voices to make themselves visible from behind the hedge that he ignored just moments before, but when they did they painted the most peculiar of pictures.

There were perhaps twelve or fifteen of them; he had no time to count them all, and each one odder then the other. Just at head of the crowd, apparently leading the others strode a tall, thin woman with a stern grimace on her face and a pointy hat on her head, walking beside her was a another woman, this one tiny, round and wearing some kind of brown burlap sack with high boots and a large hat, just behind her, chatting animatedly with the two women, walked a very portly and jolly looking man clad in…green silk? His eyes widened, was that really a long, green, silk…dress he was wearing?

Behind these three an actual midget dressed in turquoise was trying to keep up with the more long legged people screeching in a very aggravated manner after them, "Horace if you don't want to be forced into carrying me I suggest you slow down! And that goes for the ladies in front as well!"

He watched as a whole band of people of all ages and sizes appeared after the first four. They were a very loud bunch, all talking at the same time. One of the men was older and seemed to hold some authority over the ones following him; he was tall and dark skinned and the postman noticed in fascination that he was wearing traditional African clothes complete with a purple, round fez. Two of the men following him were wearing red costumes, with capes and tall boots. The next two men looked related, both had bright ginger hair, were tall and rather gangly but yet very different in clothing and demeanour, one was wearing a very formal business suit while the other was sporting shaggy hair and sneakers. The only that broke the pattern were a brown, curly haired young woman and a scruffy, bearded old man. The later was being pushed around with an actual twig by another of those cape-wearing fellows.

He just stood there open mouthed unable to think, not because of their unusual outfits or strange mannerisms, he was aware that in his country and in his time people were allowed and actually encouraged to be unique – even if he did not entirely agree to this trend – rather he was baffled by the way these people materialized out of thin air. He could swear that there was only a wide naked field beyond that hedge from where they appeared and he could swear that there was no one there moments ago.

The ginger haired young men seemed to be arguing over something while the wiry haired young woman waved her arms in exasperation and admonished them. She was wearing a very put out expression on her face and she was throwing side glances at the bearded man behind her.

The older people in front stopped suddenly and the postman, for a reason or another, felt the unexplainable urge to hide. He woke up from his bemused trance and scrambled to some nearby bushes, just off the road. He felt like slapping himself when he looked to the right and there, propped on its support, mocking him stood his bike. He dismissed his unexplainable dread by rationalizing that there was no logical reason for his fear of those people, therefore the bike was perfect where it was, if it would attract their unwanted attention he would drive them away saying he is relieving himself in the bushes, they were a bunch of freaks but they couldn't want to see him answering the call of nature. With that thought in mind and with his heart in his throat he slowly lifted a thin branch from his line of sight, being a little closer to them now he could hear and see them perfectly.

"'Mione, let me be, the git started it!" The younger red head said to the girl.

"I will ask you to cease using that foul language when mentioning me!" The arrogant older one said in a high pitched drawl. They were definitely related, brothers perhaps.

"Ms McGonagall this is hell. Why did everyone need to come? It's not like we need all the head of houses and the minister to manage him. I mean look at him…" The younger one addressed the stern, older woman in front. He waved a hand in the general direction of the dirty and pathetic looking old man who answered with a sharp glare his way. The young woman rolled her eyes.

"Yes Ron, keep up your delusions…" she replied in a bored but rather vicious tone.

"Hermione, please this is not the time or the place." The young man half pleaded.

"Yeah, it never is." She retorted clenching her fists by her side. These two showed signs of being married, the postman mussed.

The tall, elderly woman in front was still frozen to the spot scrutinizing the surroundings sharply. She looked increasingly annoyed and lifting a hand towards the bickering lot she whispered, "Shush! There is someone else here!"

All stopped in an instant as if they were expecting the poor hiding man to jump at them from behind the bushes with an axe in his hand. He could not understand what was wrong with those people and their fear was starting to rub off on him. He looked behind him, actually believing that there was some kind of unknown threat coming from somewhere, not even thinking that the reason for their defensive reaction was indeed him.

The heat of the summer day combined with the increase in his blood pressure were producing actual rivulets of sweat on his back, the shirt gluing to his skin, he had to stand still and ignore the clammy fabric as maddening as it was.

He watched in puzzlement as – at the stern woman's signal –all (with the exception of the elderly man) produced from their sleeves, pockets or purses, long thin…sticks and lifted them up menacingly as if wielding some mighty swords. They must have escaped from the mental asylum, he decided.

"It could be a muggle…" The brown haired young woman whispered.

"It could even be a fox but it could also be a Death Eater so we can never be too careful." Said the one called Ron.

"Shhhh!" the stern woman admonished in obvious aggravation. "I think Miss Granger might be right Mister Weasley, there is one of those muggle travelling devices on the side of the road" she said craning her neck to get a better look at his bicycle.

Munglle, Death Eater? Definitely a bunch of loons, he thought with certainty.

They were all coming from the field, closer to the road, crowding to see the said device.

"That's a bicycle, a postman's bicycle from the look of it." The brown haired girl said. All the faces turned to her in admiration as the postman was starting to remember how his mother always warned him to stay away from lunatics.

They all stilled for a few seconds, the postman starring bemusedly at them while they were still waiting for the danger to show itself. The only one oblivious to the situation was the older man, who had a distinctively bored expression on his face.

"Please come out! We will not hurt you in any way." The tall woman announced in a grave voice.

"We didn't exactly perform any…thing…out of the ordinary in front of him or her, did we? I mean, why do we need to do this?" said Ron in a reluctant voice.

"Mister Weasley, if you were a muggle you wouldn't call popping out of nowhere in the middle of a barren field ordinary." said in amusement the portly man. Ron shrugged and straightened the stick in his hand mumbling something that sounded like "Whatever…"

"And how would you know he saw us coming Horace?" spoke the tiny man lifting an inquisitive brow at his larger companion.

"That contraption must have been there for quite some time Fillius, muggles haven't yet discovered how to summon things out of thin air from what I know. So I only suspect that the owner left it there and went about his business, or saw us and hid somewhere in the thicket."

The poor man hiding in the bushes was now fighting a great urge to hop on his bike and make a run for it. He wasn't afraid of their stupid twigs; he was afraid of madmen, he has always been and these were the worse sort and were many of them too. His fingers trembled slightly and the branch in his hand slipped from his grip which caused the said branch to recoil and hit him over the face. He gave a surprised yelp at the pain that crossed his cheek and nose.

All the people turned to him pointing their sticks to the place he was hiding in. Even if they still could not see him he knew that he gave himself away because of that stupid twig.

"Please come out, we will not hurt you!" said the tall woman again and the postman widened his eyes when she started to approach him. The others walked behind, forming a half circle around her. The only ones not moving from their spot were the old man together with his companion that still held his own stick deeply planted in the geezers' back.

"Minerva, let me deal with this, please. It's dangerous." Spoke for the first time the African man.

"Kingsley, honestly, the only danger here is standing right behind you. After everything, this is piece of cake." The tall woman spoke with an edge to her voice but continued making small steps towards him.

She stopped a few metres away from him and even if she could not see him he had an odd feeling she could somehow feel his thoughts.

She lifted that stick in the air, closed her eyes and swished it randomly a few times towards him. A strange wind cooled his skin and a hazy glow erupted from the woman…or from that stick she was holding? He was staring at the glow in amazement as it actually started to somehow part the bushes that only moments ago protected him. The leaves rustled and more wind blew on him and into the vegetation as he was slowly being revealed to those abnormal people. He was starting to have doubts about his own sanity now and almost laughed at the sheer irony of the realisation. Only moments ago he thought about how much he despised freaks and loonies only to realise that now he was one of them.

The image that the people were met with was not unfamiliar to them, a muggle looking at them with a mixture of befuddlement and amusement on his face. The perplexity left from his earlier reaction at their eccentricity and the amusement due to the present deduction that he was the one loosing his marbles.

The older, thin woman shook her head and inhaled deeply scrutinizing him from head to toe.

"Sir, whatever were you doing here?" she asked him with what sounded like relief in her voice. He wanted to give her a silly, nonsensical answer like, "Picking raspberries", but he could only smile dumbly at her and mumble another nonsensical answer, "I need a vacation…"

They all seemed to stare at him with compassion and he wondered why even his hallucinations pitied him. He decided that this was a very sad realisation.

"Miss Granger, Mister Weasley, you know the procedure, I suggest one of you does what must be done, after all you are officially entitled to. Of course, that is if Kingsley gives permission…" Said the woman named Minerva to the youngest of the people in the group while eyeing the dark man.

"Sure, sure, go right ahead. Consider this your first field mission." Answered the man named Kingsley with a serious voice.

The two nodded and approached him slowly with their sticks raised.

"Some mission this is…" mumbled the red haired boy.

"You want me to do it Ron? You might want to take care of him." the brown haired harshly asked her ginger boyfriend while pointing to the old man in the back that seemed to be considered the source of all evils. The postman couldn't understand the reason of all this antagonism towards such a wizened and wretched looking old man.

"No 'Mione, I'll do it, do you think I'm not capable or you just want me to spend more time with him?" the red haired glared at his girlfriend and he too pointed over his shoulder at the infamous geezer, she frowned looking positively murderous. "Anyway," he continued turning back to look at the postman and ignoring his fuming girlfriend. "the muggle might get a bit of paranoia afterwards so it's safer if I do it."

"Yeah, whatever Ron! You always do what strikes your fancy…" she looked between the postman and her boyfriend and lifting her chin in the air turned on her heels and stomped away.

The man was feeling like a rabbit in the headlights, he wasn't particularly afraid, just very shocked and couldn't even find the urge to run. The young man approached him with a trained expression of reassurance on his face.

"Alright now mate, I will not hurt you, 'twill be fine, fast and you won't know a thing." He said wanting to soothe him.

"You are not even real…what the hell do you want from me…get away." He mumbled actually trying to panic, trying to find the way to react normally to such a strange situation.

"Yeah pal, I'm not real, just think of that and you'll be fine." the boy said with slight amusement in his blue eyes. He wanted to punch that freckled face of his.

"We'll go then Ron. It won't take long for you here right? We'll be at the mansion, alright?" said one of the cape wearing men in the back.

"Yeah Smith you all go right ahead. I'll be there in five minutes." answered the boy without looking back.

"Be careful Ronald, alright?" said the man named Kingsley with concern in his voice.

"Yea, I'll be fine sir don't worry, it's just an obliviation spell; done it plenty of times in training." He said again a little breathlessly but this time he turned around and gazed at all of them for a moment.

A blaze of white blinded the postman as Ron wiped out a handkerchief from his jeans and patted his forehead lightly before turning back to face him.

"I need to see a doctor…" he mumbled to himself.

The young man ignored him and pointed the stick at his forehead. The postman started laughing like a madman.

"What ye gonna do? Hit me over the head with that twig…this is the most stup…" But before he could finish his sentence two things happened in the same time, the people in the back disappeared into thin air with a thundering bang and the young man looked sharply in his eyes and yelled something he could not understand very well.

"Obliviate!" a bright white light came from the stick and entered his eyes and then everything went dark.

A moment of confusion and dizziness and then someone was hoisting him up by his arms and he couldn't understand why. He opened his eyes and looked into a green, sunny clearing just beside the road he climbed a minute earlier. He was just beside the bike a minute ago, he could not understand why he was now sitting between the bushes.

"You alright mate?" a voice said from his left. He presumed the voice belonged to whoever was helping him on his feet earlier so he turned around to look into two smiling blue eyes.

"You ok?" the young man insisted. He had shoulder length red hair with a side parting, a discoloured blue t-shirt and worn out jeans with knees. The confused teenager appearance and bearing contrasted with the face that looked older. He seemed very familiar for some reason.

"Yeah I'm fine. What happened?" he asked bleary-eyed.

"I was talking to you and you fainted. Just like that, blacked out! I gathered you off the ground just before you almost went head first into that puddle there", the man was talking enthusiastically, mimicking the way he almost dived into mud. "Here, take this, you are sweating like a troll!" A large handkerchief was pushed into his hand. For some unknown reason the image of some sort of white sheet being waved under a blinding light came into his mind. He ignored his strange mussing and the offensive remark about his sweating and thankfully took the handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

"Yeah thanks…"

"It must be this heat, really getting to you, you know," he shook his head before continuing with even more verve. "Heard of so many people that fainted on the streets of London this summer because of it…" He trailed off looking down the road at the scorching pavement.

"Maybe it is the heat." he agreed.

"Yep, definitely the heat, dangerous thing I tell you!" the young man ranted again.

"So…err…what are you doing here…?" he asked awkwardly, not really understanding who this man was and why was he so familiar.

"Oh yeah, I was walking down this road 'cause my cad…err, car broke down and I needed to find the nearest town. I found you and asked you where it could be and then you fell." The young man was speaking very fast as if he was in a huge hurry. The postman decided that he must have been in a hurry to get somewhere when bad luck stroked and his car left him in the road. He was a helpful man and he felt sorry for the poor soul, out of repaying the services of being helped when he fainted if not for anything else, he decided to give a hand. Even if he couldn't remember the young man asking him anything before he fell he blamed it all on the scorching heat.

"Where is that car of yours, I could help you with it you know, I have some experience with mechanics." He announced trying to sound dignified, banishing the lingering weakness in his voice.

"No, no, no! That will be fine; really, I don't want to bother you. My destination was the nearest town anyway, so I'll just go there…my brother lives there and we'll come later and pick up the car." He answered speaking very fast.

There was a moment of silence when only the low humming of hay grasshoppers was heard before the postman asked puzzled.

"There, where?"

"What do you mean?" asked the young man with equal confusion.

"The town where your brother lives, you just said it's close by…What town is it?" The postman looked at his odd companion while he opened his mouth slightly as if he had no idea where this brother of his lived.

"Ah…yes that! It was something along the lines of B-B-B...", he propped one finger on his lower lip musingly while chanting the letter like a toddler learning to talk; the postman was getting more aggravated by the minute. "Ah yes I think it was Barn – something…Barnstable perhaps?" He asked the postman looking completely lost.

The postman didn't know whether to turn around and leave or laugh in the young man's face. He decided that at his age he wasn't very good at geography either so he could at least help the poor sod.

"You mean Barnstaple not Barnstable, right?" he asked thinning his lips in an effort to control his amusement. Well now, the Barn Stable, the stable that is also a barn, that must truly be a practical invention, he had to give the young man that. In his career as a postman he discovered lots of funny town names and now he thought he found the answer to how they came into existence.

"Yeah, yeah, that's the name!" The young man exhaled looking suddenly happy.

"Well that's a long way to go. Barnstaple is almost forty kilometres away from here", he said pointing with his hand along the road to emphasise the distance. "I don't think you can walk there, unless you have the whole day to waste. Why don't you give him a phone call? Don't you have a cell phone? 'Cause if you don't I can lend you mine," he offered in a moment of generosity before coming back to his senses, "with the condition you let it ring once and he calls you back afterwards."

"No 'tis alright, I won't fon him", he seemed to be struggling to pronounce that word. "I was going to surprise him anyway…", the red-haired added quickly. "Maybe I'm mistaking, he just moved there a little while ago and I don't remember the name of the town. It was something starting with B though, I just know it."

"Well, the only town at a walking distance from here and starting with a B is Bodmin…but it doesn't sound anything like Barnstaple..." the man looked down the road again and turned back at the wide eyed young man in front of him.  
"I don't want to give you wrong directions." he added.

"No, no that was it, now that I think of it. Bodmin, you said?"

"Yes, Bodmin, 15 minutes walk from here." The man said with certainty coating his words.

"Hey, I should trust you, right? You are the post…guy after all." said the red-haired grinning and scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

The postman looked attentively at the young man's pupils to see if they are dilated and then lowered his eyes down the pale forearms searching for needle marks. To his surprise everything looked fine.

"Right, I'm the guy with the post, I know everything." The man said with a perplexed smirk.

"Ha, yeah, everything…" the red haired trailed off before taking a deep breath and extending his right hand to the other man. "Well I'll be off then, don't want to keep you from flying in the mail, right?" He stood there with his hand in the air and a lopsided grin on his face. The postman pondered on his thoughts for a while before scanning the other one's scruffy appearance one more time and finally deciding to take his chance.

"Ah, yes flying in my mail. I have plenty of time to fly it in, don't worry about that", he said with mock laughter, the postman looked around like he was about to deliver the biggest secret known to humanity and then leaned in closer to the young man whispering. "I know this is a little bit in your face. or so to say, but I was wondering whether you have any, you know, stuff on you now? I would really need some and I have plenty of money…" He remembered he had a few pounds to give to one of his drinking mates and thought that perhaps he could pay him back in more illegal ways.

The young man dropped his proffered hand and frowned at him in confusion.

"What stuff? I don't know what you are talking about and I really must be off if you don't mind…" he seemed anxious to leave and the postman was even more certain that the little red git was lying.

"Stuff, grass, greenies, hash-brownies…you know…" he whispered again, this time even lower than before.

The younger man still starred at him wide eyed and scrunched his face in perplexity.

"I really, honestly don't know what you're on about…"

"How old are you?"

"Err, twenty-three. Why?" he asked in exasperation. He was sweating and seemed very anxious for some reason that the postman could not understand. Of course he blamed it on an addiction or another.

"Oh for God's sake mate, you must know what grass means… He whispered sounding a little amused. At the young man's bewildered expression the postman pressed on. "Marijuana?"

"Are you looking for some Spanish chick named Mary Juana? I really don't know who she is alright and I have to go", he said rubbing his hands slightly and backing off with small steps. "It might be this heat again…So if you feel better and think you are not going to faint again I'll be off." he said with a decisive nod that made his hair fall all over his eyes.

"Don't play stupid with me! You know I'm not looking for some wench!" He breathed in sharply to calm himself. "I won't tell anyone alright? Just give me a gram and that'll be it." He didn't want to loose his chance with the young man because he knew that London, the best source for illegal substances, was a long and expensive distance away and the little towns that he was making his deliveries to were closing even their liquor stores at seven.

"Listen, this is stupid! Are you daft, or what? I have no idea what you are on about! You want me to spell it to you? I. Do. Not. Know. Alright?" The red haired was fuming and he was almost half-way to the street, prepared to leave.

"Got a temper do ya'? Alright, piss off then you barmy moron!" He yelled after him.

"You're bloody mental, that's what you are!" Retorted the young man upon reaching the long street, he glared at the postman one last time before turning his back and stomping down the hill and out of his sight.

"Insane kids! Looks like a junkie, acts like a junkie…talks like junkie; it is a junkie and has grass! And wants to sell it too…" The man grumbled clenching his fists angrily. He hated insolence, especially coming from young brats like that one. He turned to his bicycle and groaned at the thought of the hot, burning saddle that was waiting for him.

"Or maybe he was just out of the funny farm…" he mussed out-loud.

A low thunder banged somewhere, not far from where he was and the man thought with relief that some good old English rain was going to cool down this melting pavement. He stopped and sniffed the dusty, summer air; the thought of thunder came with a strange feeling of déjà vu.

He came out of his reverie when he felt he was clenching something in his right fist, a sort of fabric.

He looked down to see a crushed, white piece of cotton in his hand. The brat's handkerchief. He turned back from his bicycle and walked to the edge of the hill and looked down the road. He wanted to give him back the small object, he should be right here, he couldn't have got far in one minute and he said the car was just there, down the hill.

The road was going down abruptly but it was straight, with only a few stray trees on its sides. You could see for kilometres away as there were no sudden turns, just a straight street. The problem he had with the high road he was eyeing right now was not the lack of tall vegetation or even turns but the lack of red haired oddballs walking along it.

He frowned and stood there with his mouth slightly opened and the handkerchief hanging in his limp hand for a moment. He was chanting like a mantra, continuously, "There was nowhere he could hide!" He was looking around, just expecting for the young man to pop out of some bushes saying that he was smoking something, playing hide and seek or even digging for truffles for God's sake. He would have taken any explanation for truth at this point. Anything to prove he wasn't going mad.

He gripped the light fabric in is hand tighter. He had a proof, the boy was with him moments ago and helped him off the ground when he fainted, gave him the handkerchief to wipe the sweat of his face afterwards.

He lifted his hand and analyzed the object in his fist. It was a plain cotton handkerchief that probably used to be white once but now was rather old and yellowed with time. It looked very familiar and he strived to remember where he saw it. He had the frustrating feeling he had a memory gap, like a word he knew all his life and even if it nagged at the back of his mind he couldn't bring himself to remember it.

He inspected it on both sides and found, in one of the corners, a carefully hand sown inscription, two flourished initials in red and gold, "RW".

RW, RW, the brat's initials.

Proof, this is proof…


	2. Hope and Solace

"You said to us once before," said Hermione quietly, "that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?" Hermione, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

* * *

**Hope and Solace**

…_four years earlier._

"What in the world is he doing?" Ginny sat down next to her on one of the leather chairs lined around the spacious hall of the Ministry of Magic. She looked annoyed and Hermione understood her friend very well. She wanted to see Harry and she was also a little worried over her brother who was twenty minutes late already.

"I think he can't find the ownership declaration. Harry said it was in one of the drawers in the kitchen but Grimmauld's Place is huge and you know Ron…he's all over the place." She mussed out loud. They were on their way to meet the notary that was going to sign the ownership contract when Ron realised they actually forgot the said document.

"Yeah…"Muttered the younger girl.

On the other side of the large hall Molly Weasley was pacing while her husband was sitting on one of those leather chairs speaking and trying to calm her. Hermione strived to hear what they were saying but it was impossible, they were too far.

Charlie, George and Will were in a corner chatting animatedly while Percy was preparing the meeting over the counter with a rather reticent and aggravated looking witch.

"I still can't believe we are here Herms. After one year and I still can't believe we are fine…" said Ginny starring in the distance. A small serene smile was playing on her lips and Hermione thought that, at least for a moment, she overcame her torments. She didn't have a problem listening to her friend's frustrations, or rather, in the name of friendship; she tried to convince herself it was so. At times it was heard to listen to the same wallowing and she was willing herself to do it despite the cringing feeling she had.

If not anything else Hermione Granger was a patient person, caring, understanding, helping and always the first to come with a solution. It was tiring but in time it became a sort of unpaid job, people would confess to her instinctively. She wasn't even hearing half of the things that were being said to her but they didn't have to know that, they only had to believe that she enjoyed the discussions and that she was interested in their problems and they would flock to her. The reason for the effect she seemed to have on people was still a mystery to her.

"I am still a little worried about Harry but I have some hopes after what Connelly said. I mean she is one of the best healers, she knows what she's doing…Right?" asked Ginny

"Yes Gin, Fiona Connelly is one of the best, she has ten Healer merits and countless other prizes and her specialty is neurology…he'll be fine. She told me last week that after some two months of treatment he will not have to return to the hospital." She reassured her friend.

"Yeah, yeah I know she told mum the same thing…I just - I don't know, I'm just being exaggerated I think. It's just that every time he falls and has those spasms I'm beginning to wonder Hermione – wonder whether he can actually do this…if he is capable of restoring all that was broken. If it's not too much for him, he's only nineteen Hermione and look what he has to do, this entire world, our world – which is not a small one, he has to carry on his shoulders…" The girl looked close to tears and Hermione felt a mixture of sadness and dread in her heart.

"That is why we are here, aren't we Ginny? And anyway, he is a man, not a boy anymore…actually I wonder whether he ever was a boy." She realized then that she really believed what she was saying; Harry never had time to be a boy. Sad but true.

"Yes, I think you are right, he isn't exactly a boy anymore. Still, it's difficult facing all he has to face every day. And there still are so many out there…"

"That is where we come in, right Gin? We are many and now they are few, we will find them all and they will receive what they deserve. He definitely is not alone, people all over the world are fighting to find every last one of them. Anyone in our world would do anything for Harry Gin, like he did for all us." She recited one of her empowering speeches that she had used one too many times during her life.

The girl smiled at her friend and Hermione was glad that she had brought a bit of colour in her pale cheeks.

"I'm being such a cry baby sometimes. Thank Merlin I have you to get me back on my feet. Don't tell anyone about my silly reaction, ok? You know how I hate to be seen like this." She said wiping her tears with the back of her hand and straightening her back.

"Did I ever tell anyone about your soft side Ginny?" Asked Hermione and Ginny laughed quietly approving to her friend's discretion. Hermione had seen her in this state of mind many times before and was still wondering why she always controlled herself so much in front of anyone else. This is what means to be the little sister of six brothers, you must act like one of the boys to be taken seriously, she thought in amusement.

"No you didn't, that's our dirty little secret isn't it, said Ginny with a shrewd side glance. "I wonder how you do it though…After everything you kept your life under control, saved your parents, fought in the war and, to top it all, even managed to finish Hogwarts. Do you actually have a soft side or you hide it even better then I do?"

Hermione laughed at the question and was just about to tell her that she could never afford a soft side but refrained from it when realizing that it would only encourage the younger woman to want to develop the subject - and she wasn't in the mood for female bonding.

She remembered a moment in her sixth year when she did broke apart in front of Harry because of a certain someone.

"Ginny, my soft spot is Ron." She announced making her friend beam the most pleased smile she had. She definitely looked proud of her brother being adored by a woman.

"And you are his, said Ginny standing up and hugging her tightly. "I am so happy we are family Herms, you have no idea. It is too perfect to be real!"

She returned the hug and smiled at her.

The fire in one of the floo hearths of the Ministry blazed and turned blue and a frowning Ron appeared. Everyone stopped and looked at him like he was some exotic bird. Hermione already received those looks fifteen minutes ago, in the meantime people got accustomed to her and stopped eyeballing her, but now a new "specimen" appeared and this one called for a more thoroughly assessment as it was a male and the Ministry was full of women at that time of day.

They were used to these reactions now after a whole year, so used actually that they were on the verge of enjoying the pampering attention they were receiving.

"That's it I found it," he announced waving a thick envelope in front of her eyes with a pleased but also rather flustered expression on his face. "Merlin 'Mione you should have been there, that house is a mess, I had to turn the whole place upside down. And that drawer Harry said they were in was filled with kitchen towels. And that crazy old bat had a fit in the meantime…Ugh! He said in agitation, fingering the side of the envelope.

"Let's be thankful that it didn't take you longer. Molly was about to talk to some aurors." Hermione said quietly and looked at him meaningfully. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Thank Merlin you came. Mum is going ballistic," whispered Ginny striding over to her brother's side. "Oh Lord, here she comes…" She bit her lip and turned around the other way to avoid the upcoming storm.

"Oh no…" cringed Ron scratching a spot on his chin with a little more fervour than necessary.

"Where have you been? I was worried sick you silly, silly little boy! Don't ever do that again you hear me – EVER!" She yelled the last word making everyone ogle them with even more intensity than before.

"Mum, mum calm down, people are starring. I was only twenty minutes late. I'm fine, I'm here, let's just go, alright."

"So? Let them stare! You should have been more careful, you know what could happen, you know the horrors we have all been through, you saw the things Harry showed us…" She trailed off breathing deeply to gather her scattered wits. She was red like a beet and Hermione was afraid she will get a stroke with that temper of hers.

"Mum for Merlin's sake, relax!" exclaimed Ginny in exasperation.

"Mrs. Weasley, please calm down, you are getting yourself sick" said Hermione firmly while grabbing her by the arm and dragging her to one of the chairs. "There sit down and breathe." The older woman complied and she threw a glance at a relieved looking Ron.

"Yes, thank you dear…you should take care of this one he is as organized and responsible as Arthur in a muggle summer fair." Everyone laughed and she seemed to think they did not believe her. "I'm serious!"

"Talking about me again Molly?" said Arthur laying a large hand over his wife shoulder and smiling down at her.

"I never miss a chance to talk about you dearie." She gave him a smile and all the others seemed to have instantly relaxed.

Hermione herself breathed out relieved and stepped away from the older couple to join Ron.

Molly Weasley took the death of her son, Fred, very hard and she became excessively fearful, wallowing in a perpetual state of worry. She would count the moments when she was waiting for someone and if they were one minute late she would start pacing while agonizing over the most horrid explanations she could come up with for the person's delay.

Hermione was dreading the redecorating of the house she and Ron were about to sign for. It was a lovely, period stone mansion in Godric's Hollow that was said to have belonged to a descendent of the Peverell family. The said descendent now dead, it rightfully belonged to Harry and he decided to give it as a present to Ron and Hermione saying that they needed a stable, depending property, an investment that would always act as a last resort. They reluctantly agreed after Harry made some hard persuasion work on them.

The house was old and needed new wards and Hermione knew that Molly Weasley, in her manic phobia, would go as far as putting it under the Fidelius Charm.

She looked over to the counter to see the state of the arrangement that Percy was making. It seemed that he was just in the process of signing some files or others.

After the war everything that had to do with properties, real estate investment or title deeds called for an excessive and maddening amount of paper work, agreements and even legal charms and vows. It made no difference if you were a war hero or even the Boy Who Lived himself; Kingsley made these laws to avoid all the loopholes that existed before, there were yet no known routes to illegal actions of ejectment or phony land claiming. It was a necessary action after the chaos that the war ensued. In that disorder and confusion people from both sides stole from homes and stores, pillaged and vandalized or even took residence in houses that did not belong to them, usually the old stately homes of pure blooded families were in this situation.

Percy turned around suddenly and waved discretely for them to approach. She took Ron by the arm and went to the counter.

"Is everything alright Percy?" She asked the rather frustrated looking man.

"Ah…yes, yes! She wants you two to pay the visiting tax personally because that's what the _law _says…" sighed the man.

"I'm sorry Miss Granger but these are the rules. We don't want you coming back saying that someone else paid for you out of your account…" The secretary shrilled over the counter with a bored expression on her face.

"I was going to pay it from my own account…"Said Percy in exasperation

"The ticket is charmed with a tracking and recognition spell. It associates the payer with their personal information and no one else may enter but the payer," she made a show out off scrutinizing them over her thin spectacles before adding gravely, "also, only two people may be present in the ministries notary office at the same time, those two people must be you and your Mr. Weasley, not any random Mr Weasley obviously…Also -" she wanted to continue but Hermione raised her hand and came closer to the counter.

"Alright, alright, we'll pay the tickets, we got your point."

After both individually paying the visiting tax they took the elevator to visit a Mr. Ciaran Moseley, the public notary of the Ministry.

One hour later they were descending the wide marble staircase looking tired and carrying some new stacks of papers. Everyone left in the meantime; only Ginny, Molly and Arthur were left waiting for them.

After another tiresome visit at Gringotts they were proud to say that the contract was sealed and all that was left now was the traditional title passing ritual that was going to be performed when Harry was out of the hospital.

Diagon Alley was deserted in the scorching heat of the afternoon. The stores stood with their doors wide opened, the red-faced witch fanning herself while waiting for customers at the entrance was the regular sight they were met with.

The Weasley seniors were walking in front of them with Ginny in their toe. She took the moment to slip her hand through Ron's arm and pull him down for a kiss. She was met by a smiling pair of blue eyes. She smiled back and he pulled her close to him. They were hot and he was sweating heavily but she didn't even noticed, that oblivious love made her.

She couldn't even analyze her reactions like she used to because they seemed so ordinary, adoring everything about him was like breathing or like water, so vital that it became a habit.

They took a turn to the left towards a small, half opened cubicle in the wall of a building and found the apparition spot marked with red on the ground.

One by one they entered the cubicle and each vanished in thin air after pronouncing clearly, "St. Mungo's Hospital".

The hospital was still full of people with different conditions, most of them left over from war. A year and two months have passed since that terrible day and still so many were returning with magical wounds from spells and curses thrown at them. Hermione knew this all too well after the volunteer work she did the summer after the war and the numerous times she accompanied Harry since then when he had his fits. The hospital, no matter how clean, still held a pestilential combination of potions, human sweat and the oily smell of canteen food. She hated this smell because, to her, this was the smell of disease, of calming draught induced hallucinations and pain delusions. If there was a Hell, in her mind this is how it smelled.

Her heels clicked down the hallway as they made their way to Harry's hospital room, she tried to concentrate on the sound of her shoes to prevent the bile that was threatening to rise in her throat at the loathsome smell.

They were ushered in by a frowning young nurse who practically pushed them in the room after throwing some sanitary robes on their backs and some bushy browed glares at their hesitant smiles.

Ginny flounced herself through the door enthusiastically cooing over the messy mop of black hair that was sticking out on a bespectacled head. He smiled to her from underneath the sheets that were brought up to his chin.

Harry Potter looked at all of them from behind Ginny's arms and gave them a tight smile. Hermione scanned him up and down and asked him how he felt. He looked livid white with dark circles and red, puffy eyes. At his reassurance that he was perfectly fine she almost snorted.

Molly bustled in and produced a tiny box from her voluminous handbag and placed it on Harry's side table. She waved her wand a few times and the diminutive box became huge and was soon occupying the entire bed stand. She opened the box and the room was filled with the smell of Molly's famous cooking.

"Here you have pumpkin soup, just the way you like it, some sausages, a kidney pie – it's a little spicier how I saw you prefer it – some cauldron cakes and five chocolate muffins," she said pointing to the various steaming specialties while Harry seemed to look a bit nauseous at the sight of so much food. "I placed a warming charm on everything but now it's broken so they'll cool down. You'd better dig in or soon they'll be good for nothing," she admonished him shaking a finger in his direction. She widened her eyes and rummaged through the box once more. "Ah and almost forgot - you also have a bottle of pumpkin juice" she said proudly holding a thin, long flask filled to the brim with orange liquid.

"Mum leave the poor sod be, don't you see he's on the verge of puking? You alright Harry?" asked Ron coming towards his friend and sitting on the side of his bed.

"Yeah Ron I'm fine, said Harry in a weak voice. "Mrs. Weasley, thank you for looking after my well being! I do not know what I would do without your kindness…" He smiled to the older woman who now looked even more pleased than before.

"It's alright Harry, you know you are like a son to me," she said with tears brimming under her lashes. "I don't have Fred anymore but I have you now…"she trailed of in a futile attempt to stop the tears going down her cheeks.

Everyone shuffled awkwardly and Arthur wrapped an arm around her shoulder protectively.

"There, there dear, don't cry. Poor Harry doesn't want to see tears now in the state he is in." The man cooed over his weeping wife.

"I – I kn – kn – ow Arthur, I just remembered our poor, beautiful son and – and…" She gave up trying to speak and buried her face in her husband's shoulder sobbing instead.

"Come on Molly let's have some water, shall we? Let's leave the young ones catch up, said the elder Weasley directing his wife to the door. "_Sorry Harry, we'll be back in a moment." _he mouthed to the guilty looking patient on the bed.

"I don't know when she will be normal again…she is taking this so hard, it's like she doesn't even want to live her life at least a little normal." said Ron in resignation.

"Understand her Ron, it was her son. She will get over it, you'll see." Hermione came and stood by his side rubbing his back.

"And it was my brother too...Fred wouldn't have wanted this…if only she would understand…I'm worried about her health." Ron sighed and shook his head. His sister was watching the whole scene with thinned out lips.

"Just have patience, my friend, she will be fine," said Harry quietly taking Ron's hand and giving it a squeeze. "Talk to her, make her understand that he would have wanted her to be happy and she will forget in time," said Harry and Ron nodded in agreement. After a while he looked up at Hermione and took a deep breath. "The visiting hours will soon be over, so we better talk about what I asked you to do before they kick you out. How did it go at the ministry?" he asked with slight excitement in his voice.

"We went to the notary and finished all the paperwork. All we need now is to make the actual Handing Ritual and we can start renovating." Answered Hermione matter-of-factly.

"That's very good guys. I knew it would all go smoothly, what with 'Mione's flair with words," he said smiling and livening up a little. "I'll be out of the hospital tomorrow, so next week we'll be able to complete the ritual."

"Harry are you sure you don't want to live there with Ginny, I mean it's yours after all," said Hermione. "It's such a beautiful place; you deserve to stay there more than us. You can't prefer Grimmauld Place over the Peverell manor."

"Yeah, 'Mione is right, we've been talking about this – "

"No Ron," said Harry abruptly "we have been through this before and I told you it is my gift to you. It is why I gave it to you, so you could have a place to build your future in."

"Sorry mate, I didn't mean to be annoying or anything like that it's just that…it's pretty hard you know, to accept a house for free…not a house really a small castle for Merlin's sake!", said Ron looking at Hermione who nodded back at Harry in an attempt to show him that she was of the same opinion. Harry merely shook his head at both of them.

"Is it hard, as you say, to accept generosity," he asked the couple.

"No Harry, it's just that…" Hermione was interrupted by Harry's next question.

"Is it hard to accept kindness?" he asked calmly.

"No," said Ron a little taken aback by his friend's obstinacy.

"Is it hard to accept a friendly gesture?"

"Harry we understand. We have been through this so many times; we were just wondering what would be the right thing to do. We are not unthankful at your gesture, believe us. We were just worried," said Hermione with a slight smile in the corner of her mouth.

Harry simply looked at her unyieldingly and took Ginny's hand into his; the girl squeezed his hand tightly and kissed him on the forehead.

"Guys, you are my best friends and I want what's best for you. We are more than friends, think about it, we will soon be family," he announced smoothly looking up at them. Hermione was finally relaxed at seeing him so composed and calm after all the suffering that his fits gave him. "We need to build this world back and how could you do it without a proper place to live. Anyway, the Peverell mansion is one of the few empty residences that don't belong to a former Death Eater so there will be no grim war reminders in it," he looked at Hermione who sighed and then he continued. "You know as well as I do that those left unoccupied will be taken by the ministry and turned into Merlin knows what. I want to leave it in the care of someone I know and trust," he said resolutely with a vigorous nod of his head.

"But you two, where will you stay," asked Ron looking with questioning eyes from his sister to his future brother-in-law. Harry looked at Ginny with a tired and weak expression.

"Please Gin – tell them what Kingsley is planning. I am tired," he said with hooded, sleepy eyes. His girlfriend hurriedly took away the large pillow that kept him in an upright, conversational position.

"Sure Harry, I'll explain everything to them," she whispered lovingly to him as he slowly lowered himself back underneath the warm covers. She turned her attention to the couple and looking at her brother, who was currently still sitting on the bed, closer to her, she smiled benevolently as if she wanted to excuse herself about something. "We are to wait the minister's offer, Kingsley said that he wants us to have the best place in all Britain and he will make some offers. There are many places he has ordered to be cleaned and prepared for allotment, because he thinks that the best way to erase the awareness of the evil that was is through rehabilitation and not destruction." She searched their frowning faces for agreement, all she found was puzzlement. "Honestly, I think he is right, I agree with him a hundred percent."

"So, wait a second there Ginny," said Hermione lifting one palm at her friend's explanations. "You are saying that all the homes that once belonged to those foul people will be up for grab? For God's sake, what is he doing, does he have any idea what people could stumble upon in those places? Not to mention the owners or their relatives…" she finished her shocked little rant whispering more to herself than to anyone else.

"Harry is this true," asked Ron in a tiny whisper afraid not to disturb his dozing friend.

Harry opened his eyes slowly and looked at Ron through his lashes.

"Yes, it is Ron. And I think it's for the best, what could he do, demolish them all? They are worth millions of galleons and despite everything they still are part of the old Albion's patrimony. They are hundreds of years old and have been raised with powerful magic, bringing them down could mean disaster," said Harry in a weak but determined voice.

"Not demolish them Harry, but – but not let _people_ actually live in them for God's sake," exclaimed Hermione with an indignant look in her eyes. Harry rolled his eyes and pinned her with another unwavering look.

"Hermione, may I remind you that in the past wizards didn't just build houses like they do know, they actually created them, gave them life almost – you cannot just leave them uninhabited, if you do that they either crumble to a pile of stones or develop a magic of their own, becoming hostile dumps like the Shrieking Shack or Grimmauld's Place," he spoke in a calm, clear voice, making a pause either to rest or simply for effect, she could not tell, she suspected it was a combination of both. "Do you understand the notion Hermione," he asked with just a bit of temper rising in his tone.

"Yes I understand the _notion _Harry," she spoke in a whisper that was close to an angry hiss, managing to control her annoyance at him only out of respect to his pitiful condition. "I still think it's dangerous, not to mention stupid. Think of how tedious it will be when the former owners will come out claiming those properties…Has he even thought about that," she asked challengingly.

"'Mione, for God's sake, perhaps we should trust Shaklebolt, he always took the wisest decisions, ever since he was a part of the Order," Said Ron half turning to his girlfriend.

"Life sentence, Hermione…" Harry whispered from his bed in a harsh, ragged voice, completely ignoring Ron and looking straight at her. His voice sounded more and more haggard and she was just about to stop him and drag the two siblings out letting him rest. It was obvious that the discussion wasn't doing his condition any good. Her line of thoughts suddenly stopped when she took in what he actually said.

"What?"

"They have been given life sentence, or have you forgotten? Each and every person that was found with a Dark Mark was given life sentence and their relatives and…associates are still in trial. I presume that most of them will be imprisoned too and those that won't will be stripped of any title or authority. They present no danger Hermione, relax," he said and then lifted one finger and stopped her just before she was about to press on with her other insecurity. "As for the _dark magic_ of those places, the residences will be searched in and out and through the darkest nooks and crannies. Anything of a more darker nature will be disposed off and powerful cleansing rituals will be performed on the properties. Come on, even Ron came to his senses and I trust Kingsley, you should do the same," he exclaimed and then made a low guttural moan as he tried to straighten his stiff neck on the pillow. "Oh and another thing, Not anyone can buy those places, you know. The laws are very, _very _strict." Harry seemed to force the words out of his mouth, his throat made his voice sound like it was coming out of an old, rusty radio on a fading frequency.

"It's alright Harry, Hermione understands and believes you, don't you Hermione?" asked Ginny looking at her worried.

"I believe him, it's true, but it doesn't mean that I understand." She said bluntly. Ron turned to her with an incredulous glint in his eye, while Ginny sighed and shook her head. Harry's stare never left hers and she detected there something akin to…satisfaction?

"Hermione, can't you give him a break, at least now?" asked Ron.

The door creaked open and Arthur Weasley's head popped in with a satisfied smile on his face interrupting the tense silence.

"Ah, finally managed to calm Molly. She is outside in the waiting room, cooing over a small baby boy. The nurse came by and said that it was time to let Harry rest." he sounded a little breathless and Hermione thought that he was probably excited about his winning war with his wife's emotions. He froze in place and frowned a little as he swept his stare over each of them, sensing the tension in the room. "What happened here?"

The pressure dissolved instantly, something that by contrast with their earlier irritation only seemed to strengthen the belief in Hermione's heart that it was terribly wrong for them to squabble over such little, silly things after all the horrors they shared.

"Nothing Mr. Weasley, just a little disagreement between me and Hermione," piped in Harry smiling weakly at Arthur Weasley who turned to her with a questioning look.

"We'd better all go and let Harry rest; the nurse will drag us out of here by the collars soon anyway for disturbing him. You will have all the time to discuss when he will be better. Wait, you will all be a big family, you have all your life to bicker!" The elder Weasley said light-heartedly but looking straight at Hermione. Everyone laughed at the joke but kept looking at her, waiting for approval, another polemic or perhaps some sort of excuse, she didn't know.

She smiled the smile that brought the selfless mask upon her face. In her rather short life she discovered that one of the easiest ways to be inconspicuous is to seem innocuous and sometimes she was hungry for anonymity, even around her closest friends.

She looked at all of them and knew that she needed to get their attention off of her right now; it was pointless to infuse her uncertainties in others. She couldn't persuade them, the only effect she had in that moment was to irritate them with her constant anxiety. Three of the people in that room had had enough fear and worry from their own mother – wife respectively - to have to stand her own insecurities. She smiled again and presented some curt excuses, kissed Harry and disappeared through the door as fast as she could. Everyone followed and to her satisfaction the little disagreement was left behind.

Maybe it was time to let go, maybe it was time to go with the flow and let everything in the hands of those appointed to take care of them. _He_ was gone from the world, _he_ encompassed all their nightmares, everything that meant evil in this world was _him_ and _he_ was gone. After all, he was the only reason for them not living a normal childhood and adolescence. It all lead to a logical conclusion, it was time for them to take care of their own selves now. No, erase that, it was time for her to take care of herself, only herself.


	3. Hope and Misery

_This is the third chapter. I am not very happy with it, it could have been better...My muse has been lieing around, being lazy lately so it's not my fault. :D_

_I hope you will enjoy it and leave reviews despite the gloomy rant above__._

_Enjoy...if you can._

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"It's time you learned the difference between life and dreams […]" Lucius Malfoy, The Order of the Phoenix

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**Hope and Misery**

What am I doing here? Couldn't I just pass this foolishness? What need is there for all this when I know what they think?

No, that was wrong, what they think doesn't exactly matter, does it? It's more along the lines of what they want. Their desire is the most important now, stands on their forehead with a capital D. I wonder if they have any idea how similar they are to their former enemy?

I would laugh right now, double over and laugh like a madman, if it wasn't for that wolf of a man watching me from the corner of the room.

I have been looking at him just as avidly as he has and I'm starting to wonder if he ever blinks, or even if he is still alive. He made no move ever since I have been brought here. Maybe he isn't even real, maybe he is a giant puppet stuffed with straw like those…what do you call them? Those human sized dummies that the elves used to plant around my vineyard to keep the starlings away from the grapes. Ah, yes, scarecrows! Maybe they put these false guards because the real ones are somewhere getting pissed, smoking and grinding glass to slip in our food. Maybe they think they did such a great job at turning us into moronic, shivering wastes that they don't even bother in guarding us properly. I have to strangle these thoughts now or they will strangle me. I get paranoid in here, especially when they make me wait like this.

I despise waiting, it makes me uncertain, uncomfortable - not that I'm basking in some indulgent cosines around here – our toilets clean themselves once a week and we sleep directly on rickety iron beds with just a thin, gnawed "mattress" to protect us from being stabbed by the iron bars coming out from the old cots – it's just that being the survivor that I am I somehow managed to find moments of solace even in this dump, but today things changed, this day had me sweating and pacing about in my cell. And now I can't even pace with these ropes strangling my ankles and with that gaunt scarecrow eyeballing me from the corner of the room.

I take my eyes away from the eerie character and look at the "charming surroundings". The room is a perfect square and has only one minuscule window, but it can pride itself with an enormous iron door. It stands dark and ominous in front of me; it has no porthole like the one in my cell does - just some barbaric looking hinges and a heavy door knob with some odd decorative kinks.

I look to my left; I see a tall cabinet accompanied by a bucket and a mop sitting beside it. The cabinet is stuffed with files that I assume belong to prisoners.

The oddest thing in the room is not the large door, or the mop with its bucket, neither is the file cabinet - you can't even call the scarecrow or myself odd next to the object that is placed by the wall at my left. Looking as harmless as it can be, there is an actual baby stroller just there beneath the tiny excuse for a window. I have seen the thing the moment they sat me on this chair and I have been striving to figure out what was it doing in a place like this. As warped as the head guard's mind is he can't be taking his children out for strolls in Azkaban "_to see those scary looking but nice gentlemen that like to live in cages at you workplace, daddy!_" I'm sure it is a perfectly rational explanation for that stroller being there, it's always like this, the oddest things are sometimes the most logical and the simplest of things always hide something twisted. Simplicity makes me suspicious.

My hands are tied at my back; I can't even twiddle my fingers properly. My feet are tied to the chair and I'm wondering where and – most importantly - how do they think I could run. I have no wand – I haven't had one for over a year now, my master took care of that, making the job easier for the three meaty guards that formed my welcoming committee when I first arrived in this charming place.

I digress now and I should keep my mind focused on that blasted door; that's where the silly little man that is my so called solicitor will appear from. From what the grape vine says this is a new profession that has been introduced in the Wizengamot by Shaklebolt in order to – and I quote, "offer an absolute opened access to justice" - justice is now not only blind-folded and chained but is also accessible. The famed Masoch and his _girlfriend _were innocent school girls when compared to the new Minister, I'm sure they never fantasized about domination games involving Justice. Kingsley Shaklebolt turned Justice into a cheap trollop that jumps in bed with all the convicts, seduces them with promises of freedom and then throws them back in prison; and all this for Potter's entertainment.

I am a man that believes in law, I am a man that can't imagine a social system without a structure, lacking the least bit of back bone. I am a traditionalist, some say I'm old fashioned, a dinosaur, a relic of a time long gone, but I can't understand a society that lacks hierarchy, a society that levels everyone down, impeding evolution. I am called an enemy of magick and people, an oppressor of magical development, a killer, and torturer. Everything is backwards since the war ended, not that it was right before mind - but now it's just simply wayward. I am glad that I developed such perfect resignation that I don't even care what they say anymore. This bliss of acceptance that I'm swimming in has taken all the fight out of me and I'm afraid they are messing with my mind more easily now in the state I'm in. How I despise instinct, it numbs you when things get to difficult. The mind protects itself by detaching - blanking its reactions just like the body, when deeply wounded shuts down all the pain receptors.

I need to get myself back on track, I need to regain my focus and control, and I need to find something rational to think about, something distracting. There are so many things I'm missing, I'm sure of it; reasons, motivations, interests that they are led by, things that I'm kept away from. Nothing is as it seems and I'm sure that they aren't practicing what they preach, no one really does - the temptation is immense when you hold such power.

Power, power, power…the scarecrow holds power over me even if he is inferior to me socially, mentally and even genetically. The warden, a 2 metre tall brute, has power over the scarecrow and the prisoners, the head guard holds power over the scarecrows, the prisoners and the wardens - not because he is in any way superior to the wardens but simply because he is a more refined sort of brute. Advancing on the pecking order we find Kingsley, the minister of magic; I might have a little respect for him, for being around my age, a pureblood and a good adversary in battle but all that respect is reduced to nothing because he is led by a teenager. That said teenager is at the top of this twisted "food chain" that the wizarding world willingly developed for itself. So I was wrong, there is a hierarchy – of course there is, no system can function without it - this hierarchy though is all backwards, the ones that should be at the top are dead or completely ignored while a mere boy that didn't even finish Hogwarts rules the world. He holds everyone in the palm of his hand and not because of something he did, but because he followed the advices of an old, experienced and admittedly powerful wizard. No one has to know that I respect that old man, but I do, if he would have continued what he started by Grindelwald's side I'm sure that together they would have put the Dark Lord to shame – or just put him in their job...

I have to much time to think here, to much time with myself and my memories. I just sit, think and remember, I remember everything, things I could have done better, things I shouldn't have done, things I foolishly avoided doing and things that I'd rather forget. The perfect example of memory that nothing can erase is that last day, when the Dark Lord died. I have only witnessed a Priori Incanatatem twice all my life, first in the cemetery when the Dark Lord returned and second, then, at the peak of the final battle, but that last time the power of the spell was tangible, the whole hall was vibrating and after the immense light that blinded everyone I was sure that both of them died. I remember trying to keep my eyes open to see all the details of the spell, I willed myself to do it but it was impossible, it was like the sun itself fell from the sky directly in the middle of the hall. The light exploded from their wands and it was vast, white and impossible to look at. I covered my eyes and so did my son that was by my side. The first thing I saw when I opened them was my son again, this time looking wide eyed to the centre of the hall. I followed his stare and there they were, two dark bundles sprawled on the floor, apparently unconscious.

I was sure that they were both dead and I think so was everyone else. I was relieved because that was the outcome I was hoping for; I wanted everything to be erased down to basics, to start everything from scratch, without war heroes, or dictators – that was the only way for me and my family to avoid jail or, in the case the Dark Lord won – the Killing Curse. Of course that in those moments of confusion and fear I forgot that hoping for the best only brings the worst and so fate, God, or whatever other entity had the bad inspiration to invent us, felt comical and proved my foolishness by making Potter move.

Everyone gasped and Slughorn and McGonagall flew to his side. Slughorn took him by the arms and brought him up to a sitting position while McGonagall kept calling his name. Another one from the crowd ran by his side, it was that boastful little friend of his, Hermione Granger, the mudblood – the one that my son used to grumble about like a grudging old man. I remember that ironically she was covered in mud and had an immense wound on her leg, a wound that apparently sliced through the muscle and through those ghastly blue muggle trousers she was wearing. She sat in front of him and started yelling his name while shaking him furiously. In contrast with her wild behaviour Weasley's daughter was crying and stroking his cheek while whispering inaudible words. Another Weasley came; this one was Arthur's youngest son, the one that just a few months before was brought by the snatchers to my house along with the mudblood and Potter.

Potter couldn't hold his head straight and he seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness. When he first opened his eyes he looked around himself with a mixture of confusion and fear. Granger started laughing, the Weasleys started crying. The two teachers stood up and announced victoriously, "He's alive!" The entire hall erupted in cheers, while my colleagues tried to make a last minute escape, most succeeding in the mayhem that was created.

All around us people were laughing, crying and embracing. McGonagall created a shield around Potter to prevent the overexcited people from suffocating him. In a matter of seconds everyone swarmed around the shield to look in awe at their hero. Such complete joy was written on their faces that you would have thought that the existence of heaven was confirmed and they just received special invitations to go there on vacation

My son asked me what we should do, I didn't know what to answer - all I could think about was how much I wanted to find my wife. We did find her after a while and despite the awkwardness and apprehension that we felt among those people that were supposed to be our enemies, all three of us sat at one of the tables. We were exhausted and confused, we needed time to gather our wits and plan our next step. I wanted to take them both and run, my wife wanted to stay – being her usual optimistic self she thought that we had a ticket out of the whole mess.

My son, on the other hand, reached the perfect state of catatonic stupidity. We tried to talk to him but he was just nodding and staring into nothing. Sometimes he would lift his gaze at the ceiling like a chicken searching the skies for hawks. I managed to ignore him for a while, still striving to figure out what to do. My wife insisted that we are saved, that she did something that will redeem us; she wanted us to be alone and talk about it in private. She never had the chance; the Aurors came and took us away, separating us. She never loosed her nerve and even when she was tied with the Incarcerous, she smiled at me and told me to have patience because everything will be fine. Nothing happened, I'm still here in this hell in the middle of the sea and I haven't seen her since. I do see my son almost every day – looking older and gaunter – but not my wife. I know that Potter in his righteousness would never kill her, and I know that if he were to kill a Malfoy I or my son would be the first on his black list.

But no, no, Potter is not a killer, of that I'm sure. My wife must be in Azkaban as well – I and my son can't see her because she is in the women's quarters of the prison. The last time I've been in Azkaban, two years ago, men and women ate together; it was the only time we would see our female neighbours, this time though I haven't seen any women – I don't believe that Potter is in any way misogynistic and to such a degree that he would destroy all women prisoners. He changed all the prison regulations just like he changed everything else and created individual quarters; she is here, I know it.

I hear sounds - voices and steps. The scarecrow twitches and finally proves that he is alive by flashing a set of yellowed teeth my way and then hoping off of his stool.

The sounds are approaching, the scarecrow wraps his hand around the door knob but before pushing he turns to me with a malicious little grin.

"No chance Malfoy!" he hisses in a raspy, smoker's voice, "No bloody chance! You be rotting in here, you will!"

"You already are…" I answer back cringing at his butchering of the English language.

He throws me one last evil sneer and then ceremoniously opens the heavy door.

"Through here Mr. Hogberry," echoes a thick voice from the hallway.

"It's Hollingberry – I thought I told you two times before…" says another, this one in an affected tone. It is my solicitor - he has the perfect Ministry worker's voice, prim and unremarkable.

"Err – forgot again sir, sorry about that. With so many folks I meet 'round here every day…" He murmurs.

"Forgiven…" the higher pitched voice drawls dismissively.

"As I was sayin', he is the most annoying of the lot, I tell ye'!" the warden grunts as he walks through the door. "You ought to tell the minister all about this funny behaviour of his – disrespectful, don't even bother to look at us, he isn't. He just sat about on his filthy cot looking at a spot on the wall while we was suppose to carry his royal arse all the way to here."

"I see, I see…" he trails of as he enters the room, the large troll of a man moving aside to let him in. His appearance is as unremarkable as his voice – hound's-tooth overcoat and black trousers – he looks almost muggle.

"Mr Malfoy," he says and inclines his head at me. I return the gesture stiffly.

"Mr. Hollingberry, do come in. Make yourself at home," I say sarcastically at which he smirks.

"You shut yer' mouth Malfoy, ye'r speakin' to a Ministry's 'fficial." The warden grumbles gruffly, hunching his shoulders at me to appear menacing. This is the troll's great and only quality, he possesses a stunning intuition – a sixth sense in detecting the smallest signs of impertinence only from the tone and manner of speaking – just a necessary survival instinct that has obviously sprouted out of his lack of basic intellect. Hollingberry waves a dismissive hand his way, "Leave it to me Husher." He turns to me with a smile.

"Still your old mordant self, Lucius?" He shakes his head in amusement. "Though I dare say that your voice doesn't do you justice anymore – a bit raucous, a bit rough around the edges…" he speaks smoothly, relishing in the annoyance that undoubtedly etches itself on my face. "Though I wonder, has it become so rough because it is scarcely used…or perhaps, on contrary, you have been screaming your throat raw lately?" He is trying to be subtle about the incidents that occurred during our last encounter. He obviously fails – even the troll gets the hint this time – he sniggers from behind the man. `

"Spare me your _wit_, Lysander." I whisper to him.

He chuckles and strokes his thin goatee.

"I do believe it is precisely my _wit_ you need these days." He says and his eyebrows go up into his hairline, making his face look pinched.

"If you will continue to use it the way you did, I might as well hire Husher – I'm sure that with his fists he can persuade more people than you did." I rasp and my throat is indeed very raw. Husher sneers at me. "Now, what did I tell yer' Malfoy?"

Hollingberry chuckles. The bastard is honestly amused. I am myself surprised at my carelessness – the truth is that after almost a whole year between brutes and convicts all my common sense dissolved. But as my once master used to say: "You have it in you Lucius, if you could, if you would only allow yourself you wouldn't be much more civilised than Fenrir." He was right of course, though he could never understand that the very fact that I managed to instruct and build myself so well shows that I am nothing like Fenrir or even himself for that matter.

"I cannot force lies on people. I am the devil's advocate as anyone might say." He sits himself on the chair opposite mine and after looking me straight in the eye for a moment, to see his words sink in, I suspect - he starts rummaging through his briefcase.

"And I see I cannot force the truth on you…" I say quietly.

"Perhaps two years ago you could have, but not anymore." He sighs dramatically and lifts a thin eyebrow at me. "Truth, truth – there are so many thrust in this world, don't you think? I'm sorry to tell you that I only believe what's factual, what can be proved - you have no substantiation. Even if my job is to support your side of the story I can hardly do that without proofs." He drawls as he produces a stack of parchments and a quill from the briefcase and neatly arranges them on the table between us. "Where do you think we are, at the market? There is no bargaining here and galleons have no say in it, I thought I told you before. If you give me factual – and I repeat – _factual _proof that you have not killed all those people we might be able to work something out." He blinks at me with saucer eyes after he carefully perches a pair of thin spectacles on his nose.

The reality is that I have no proof. He is right, I have no arguments. I have never felt so stupid in my life. We look at each other for a moment. He smirks – he knows.

"Charity Burbage." Is what I say. It is the hardest to convince them that she has not been murdered by me since…bits of her – that I'd rather not think about – have been found in my house. I have always tried to solve the seemingly unsolvable first.

"Indeed." He extracts one of the parchments from the pile and slides his beady eyes over it quickly. "Fragments of bones, hair and nails have been found at the Malfoy residence, at no. 28th Morgan's Vale, Wiltshire County." He reads quickly and then lifts his inquisitive eyes at me. "Isn't that your address, Lucius?"

"Obviously…" I answer.

"It says here that not only these fragments have been found but also blood and fingerprints belonging to Mrs Burbage have been discovered on several furniture pieces in your Drawing Room." He seems to think I don't believe him. "Here, have a look! You seem to struggle under the suspicion that I am giving you false information." He clicks his fingers at the warden and commands him to untie my hands. He grudgingly complies and pulls roughly at my ropes, releasing me. I rub my wrists and stretch my numb fingers. He extends his hand over the table, pushing the large file under my nose. I take it.

A short story of the victim's background – her valiant fight for the acceptance of muggleborns, her persistence of this goal despite the many antagonist forces, this is followed by pictures of her smiling in class with students, smiling at home with grandchildren and smiling by Dumbledore's side in the Main Hall of Hogwarts. Happiness, content, followed by hell – the victim tortured and murdered with the killing curse. The murderer (me) tried to rid of the body by destroying it. An attempt at a dissolving spell or potion – failed attempt, obviously. Lovely little story followed by another row of photographs showing the Aurors and the sleuth grimly examining some odd looking remains. I can recognize the lobby of my house and my heart twinges painfully.

I hear some shuffling followed by the smell of tobacco. Hollingberry smokes his pipe with relish. My mouth waters. I'm not a regular smoker but here, if I could, I would be.

"I always like making my clients feel at ease when preparing the case," he says with a sardonic smile. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his hound's-tooth coat. I drop the file. He offers me one. I take it. It is the first time he does this and I wonder if he always keeps that pack there for his clients to make himself more agreeable.

I feel overwhelmed by a feeling of absolute indulgence. Everything from the fire on the end of his wand lighting my cigarette, to the first taste that stings the tip of my tongue overwhelms me. God help me – the state I must be in to be so enraptured by a bloody fag!

"So, Lucius, anything to say for yourself?" He asks.

"I haven't killed her. I don't know exactly what happened to her. I told you before, the Dark Lord killed her." I shrug blowing the smoke with elation. If I could close my eyes just now I could think I'm at home in front of the fire, with a glass in one hand and a book in the other and…

"Lucius, she was found in your home." The strident voice calls over the table.

"You can't exactly say that _she _was found in my house, can you? The remains could have been anyone's, I'm even wondering what they really were. I don't think that anyone can forget the Crouch incident." He looks at me surprised.

"Why, I can't believe this…" He smiles mockingly. "The things that people miss when kept away from civilisation. Tsk, tsk, tsk!"

"Such a talent for spotting the obvious, Lysander…What are you on about then?" Curiosity awakes me from my nicotine induced reverie.

"Sanguis Origo Lucius," he says arrogantly. "A quite fascinating invention, if I say so myself, an elaborated ritual that indicates the…ah…owner of the remains. The smallest piece of hair or fleck of skin can tell us more about a suspect and its victim than your regular fence watching neighbour. And this," he taps a gnarled finger on one of the grisly pictures on Burbage's file, "is not exactly what we call _small _in terms of evidences_._"

"I understand that you have already performed the ritual…" I say.

"Have no doubt about that," he smirks.

I look at the picture and try to see exactly what those remains are; they are just piles or balls of something impossible to identify. They remind me of the muck that littered my owlery back home. "What is this anyway…?" I push the paper away and look at it from the distance, I squint my eyes, I turn it over on all sides to catch a bit of light - but to no purpose, the chamber is dark, the images are unclear and to be honest with myself, my eyesight is far from what it used to be.

"You tell me what they are. You brought the poor woman in this state." I'm still trying to understand something of those pictures. Who could have done it? How did they do it? A dissolving potion? Wasn't it easier to transfigure the body like Crouch Jr. did with his father? And how could, whatever that potion left behind, have that shape?

Hollingberry sighs and rubs his arms shivering. "Oh do hurry up…I'll be nithered in here!" - _Nithered*? - _"Oh, alright then", he waves his wand impatiently casting a Lumos and then leans back into the rickety old chair glaring at me.

I dismiss my curiosity at his godforsaken slang and look back at the pictures that now are finally discernable. Three men hover around a tall, ornate table that I identify as the one Cissy used to have her tea and write correspondence on. Those odd lumps are placed directly on it and they seem to be using it as an examination table. If Cissy would only see this…

The Auror's face twists into a grimace, he clams a hand over his mouth and disappears from the picture as another man dressed in white robes prods the lumps with a long steel rod.

I'm sure that in this moment my face resembles greatly that of the Auror. I feel sick; those are indeed remains…they seem dense, compacted…like the fur and bones that the owls regurgitate after digestion, like the waste in the owlery…The snake…Oh God!

This is it! This is my chance! The snake, he used to feed them to that fat snake of his. Burbage was hanging upside down over my dinner table that night. The night he took my wand, the night Draco's ideals turned to reality and he wanted to go to the Order for help. The night the Dark Lord killed Charity Burbage…

I look up at him, my heart rising in my throat. I remember, this is proof, this is _substantiation_. I'm so enthusiastic that is choking me. I'm not a killer and now they will believe me.

"Well…" he asks impatiently. I feel strange. I look at him and the room spins. I'm a bit old for this youthful zeal of mine.

Breathe, breathe. It gets bad, my head hurts, I feel cold sweat on my forehead and my stomach churns painfully. I close my eyes and press my fingers into them. It gets worse, I feel myself drifting, and my consciousness flickers like a dyeing candle. This is so sudden. What is wrong with me? Those things are ghastly indeed, but they can't trigger such extreme reactions in me - I have seen worse.

I stare at the man in front of me. He looks…different. He seems almost, worried?

"I…don't feel…" I hear myself rasping in a strange, distant voice. I see him moving, but the vision blurs, shines unsteadily and is reduced to hazy patches of light and colour. I can't be giving up the ghost so stupidly just when I'm about to get my sorry hide out of prison.

"What is it Lucius?" It's like he speaks from the bottom of a well.

I can't keep my head straight, my chin falls in my chest and I try to think, I try to let out the thing that gnaws at my mind even in the state I'm in. Maybe, just maybe he will believe me if he hears this…Finally something I remember. He killed her.

"N –, "the world spins, "N –," I can't see, "Nagi - …," someone is moving, "Nag - …" Someone spoke…What did they say?

What is going on?

Darkness…

-

Pain! My whole body aches and burns! Something is hitting me, an immense power that pushes me against a wall, I feel it in my mouth and eyes and I'm trying to cover myself, striving to breathe. And the noise, oh Lord, the noise splits my head apart! Thousands of screams, a huge uproar that never ends and I scream along with it, competing with it. Cold, so cold it burns; knives tear my flesh and bone. I wish for warmth, I wish for someone to come. I scream again. Someone screams back in a harsh voice.

I fall to my knees, the immense power follows me and I'm suffocating, I'm drowning. I hate, hate, hate, loath and despise and I want them all to die! I claw my way up the stone and I cling to the wall behind me. I see it for the first time, its water; they are hosing me down again. The cutting jet of water hits me in the back taking the breath out of me, it throws me down and my cheek collides with the damp stone floor. Hate, hate, hate!!

It stops. I'm freezing; I can't even feel the stone beneath me. For an insane moment I think that it was warmer under that jet of water. I heave and close my eyes; I need to gather what's left of my strength. What did I do now to deserve this?

"Had enough you mangy shite? HAD ENOUGH? Ever dare te' hit a Ministry's 'fficial again and you're really gonna miss this here soft punishment." The warden barks. I hear him drop the heavy hose and I listen to the sound of his boots approaching me. I do not look up; if I do I will hit him. Ah, yes I remember, I attacked my solicitor because he insisted that I'm guilty.

He smacks me over the back of my head. I cringe and grind my teeth as I get back up on all fours. Kneeling at the feet of this maggot…How I'd love to twist a knife into his fat chest. No magic, nothing clean, nothing elegant, just the feel of life seeping out of him in red rivers over my hand.

"You look at me, ye hear. To superior to do it, eh? If you ain't looking down at people, yer lookin' ye other way 'round, eh?" He laughs stupidly. "Answer me!" He yells and lifts his foot slightly. I know what follows and I tighten my abdominal muscles. In no time his boot collides painfully with my stomach and despite my try at shielding myself from the shock I double over and fall on my side.

I lift my head and look into Husher's hoggish face. He looms over me and grins like an idiot.

"Say you're sorry, ye' filthy rat!" He yells.

He is nothing. He is vermin. I gather all my forces to get myself off the floor. I won't grovel at the feet of this animal; he's not worth the mud on my shoes.

I face him. No, I don't face him exactly; I'm looking up at him. He is a mountain of a man; a broad-shouldered, small-headed brute. My legs shake, but I've been worse. This is nothing compared to what the Dark Lord was capable of. Who does this moronic hog think he is to torture me?

I spot movement in a corner of my eye. Hollingberry leers at me from a dark corner. He has been watching me all this time? The twisted bastard! Does he get of on this? I look back at Husher.

"I'm sorry…" His face relaxes into a brutish smile. "I'm sorry I can't perform real torture on you. Real, magical torture, the one you do with a wand and not with the fist. The sort of magic you haven't even dreamed of in all your worthless life!" I spat in the wardens face.

The rage disfigures him and I smile because at this point I don't care what he does, all I know is that my words have more power than his fists. Oh I see it, it hurts, you filthy, worthless squib!

His small, beady eyes narrow to slits and I fight the urge to gauge them right out of his skull.

"Squib", I hiss. His body flexes and like a cornered dog he bares his teeth at me. Go on then, hit me and give me a reason to attack you, give me an excuse. I wait - all my reflexes awake.

"That would be quite enough Husher!" drawls Hollingberry from the back. The beast steps back shakily, obviously making inhuman efforts to control himself.

"One of these days Malfoy…"he whispers breathlessly. I sneer and stare him down; he finally looks away and gets his meaty frame out of my sight.

Hollingberry steps forward.

"You are a truly abject piece of work Lucius. I honestly hoped that I could find a way out for you. I am a very sympathetic man, and I love my job but you have made all this very difficult. It is like you actually want to spend the rest of your days here…" He steps in front of me and casts the Incarcerous; I'm immobilised hand and foot and I have to lean back against the wall to prevent myself from falling like cardboard on the floor.

"I'm sorry I must do this Lucius, but you leave me no choice. If you are to try to throttle me again it would be most inconvenient. I wonder what it is that makes you so disappointingly stupid." He waits for an answer.

"How dare you speak to me that way?"

"I dare? I dare? Oh this is rich!" His laugh is forced. "You've hit me you utter brute, you lunged yourself at me and I had to stun you or else you would have killed me! I come here to help. I apparate all the way to the middle of the sea, in this nithered-" (Nithered? Since when does Lysander use Yorkshire slang? ) "-damp hole of a place because Kingsley is a righteous, upright citizen and believes in equal chances for everyone. I comply with his request when I could just lounge at the club and enjoy the summer sun with some agreeable company rather than try to help a wretched, ungrateful criminal such as you." He paces up and down in front of me, making a show out of his aggravation. "I always thought you irredeemable but I must do my duty, I'm a moral man, I believe in duty, in law and the people." He pulls out his usual flask from an inside pocket of his coat and takes a dramatic swig out of it. What I wouldn't give for a drop of whiskey to warm my brittle throat.

I cough and take my chance.

"How is Cardiff lately Lysander?" I ask him quietly. He stops his pacing, slips the flask back into his coat and turns around with a confused frown.

"What?"

"You heard me. Tell me a bit about Cardiff."

"Why?"

"Isn't that where you were raised and where you are still living today?"

"I dare say that you know all too well the answer to that. You fooled me into inviting you at my residence when I thought you were a respectable, dignified an-…"

"I THOUGHT…" I raise my voice to stop his upcoming rant. "I thought that perhaps you changed your residence. I merely wanted to congratulate you, Yorkshire and the North in general are indeed charming…lovely people, fascinating landscapes, intriguing dialect…"

"What are you trying to say, Lucius?" he whispers.

"Are you _nithered_ Lysander?"

He widens his eyes at me and gawps for a second. The small twitch in the corner of his mouth turns slowly into a howl of laughter.

"This is the most hilarious thing I have ever heard Lucius. Oh God, you really have lost your touch and your mind. You cling to any silly little thing to turn the table in your favour. Nithered…Ha!" He continues to laugh like a moron.

"Ah, so you just went on a holiday in Harrogate and picked up some of the local slang?"

"Do stop this foolishness Lucius! My wife was born in Scarborough, that's just a random word I picked up from her. Your diversion techniques are getting pathetically obvious; you have seriously lost your touch."

"It was no diversion, it was curiosity…"

"Yes, yes curiosity…" He comes close to me and stares me unflinchingly in the eye. "There is only one villain here, one killer, one traitor, only one scum and that is you my dear demented friend. Nothing you do can save you anymore, not after what you did earlier, not after you attacked me. How dare you even think of accusing me of anything, you loathsome beast?" Spittle flies from his mouth as he rants.

"How do I know what you get up to in your free time Lysander? You had no qualms to welcome a then ex Death Eater in your home. And don't yap again about me manipulating you into anything, you needed my money, I needed nothing from you. If any of us tried to get under the other's skin it was you. Tell me the story of the little fortune you have gathered with my help. Such a short memory and such broadminded views, so easy to sway into anything with just a bit of sponsoring…" I hiss at him. He straightens himself and looks slightly surprised. He stares at me for a long while and starts to smile his most mocking smile.

"I don't know what you are talking about." His tone might be very convincing if one does not see his gloating smirk. "I regret but I can't linger. The time is up for this session, Mr Malfoy." he starts. "I need to announce that there is only one meeting before the final trial, I hope you will manage to control yourself until then."

I must grudgingly admit that he is right; I can't understand why I lost control. I remember attacking him but it's all so unclear; all I know is that he showed me some evidence pictures and insisted again and again that I killed Burbage. The truth is that I don't even know who killed that woman; it could have been anyone considering that the Dark Lord tampered with our memories a lot in that time. What if he is right, what if I killed her? But he must not know these thoughts. No one needs to know anything about me, just like before they will see only what I show them, only what I want them to see, only what they should see. It's just a game of strategy, nothing more. I don't have such high chances of ever getting out of here but maybe just maybe if I play my cards right, I won't have to tell the truth that they want to hear and yet somehow slip between their fingers…

"Well?" I look back up at him startled out of my thoughts. "Are you going to cooperate next time?"

"I might...if you will believe my side of the story."

"Oh how I wish to believe it, it would make my job so much easier. Alas, all the evidence points to you and to top it all your behaviour as of late makes impartiality very difficult from my part." He is mocking me and I'm tired and cold. This old shirt is frozen and clammy, sticking to my skin like a thin ice crust.

"Part of your job is to be unbiased, if I'm not mistaken…"

"I am the most unbiased person you have ever met." He inclines his head and walks briskly to the door. "I must go. We'll speak about poor Mrs Burbage next time. Maybe you will find it in you to tell me how you managed to reduce her to a pound of meatballs." He opens the door and I shiver.

"I. Did. Not. Kill. Her!" I whisper fiercely, still hoping that I haven't lost my touch at scaring people with words only. It seems I have, he just leers at me. I remember dear Bella – may the Devil rest her bones – saying: _"The more brassed off Lucius is the happier he seems. People should piss their pants when he smiles…"_ I bet she would get her jollies out of seeing how pathetic and feeble I've become – bruised, filthy - a lame, emaciated, rheumatism eaten husk of a man. Oh, she would have a ball!

"Good day Lucius!" He smirks and walks out shutting the door behind him. I stand there leaning against the cold wall, like a crumbled old statue without a pedestal.

The air is frozen. My breath comes out in thick, white vapours. I wait for someone as always, someone to come and take me to my cell. I am insane, I must be, otherwise I wouldn't miss that stinking hole that I live in. But I do, because it's not as overbearing as this torture chamber, slightly warmer and I'm not alone, which is the most important aspect.

The door clings and opens widely, bouncing of the wall. Husher's hoggish frame occupies the entire doorway.

"A bit bored are we?" he chuckles. "Spunk, get yer' arse in here, we've got some work ter' do!"

They both enter and Spunk shuts the door behind him. His nickname is fitting him, he is the type that doesn't back away from any type of torture and his glee at the prospect of tormenting the prisoners is befitting that of a four year old in a candy shop. He is mad.

I must be going mad too, sometimes I don't even know where I am. I forget the days, the nights, myself. Something is teribly wrong and I don't know what. Memories or dreams, visions or truth. What is real and what is not?

All I know is pain and hate. Hate at them and at myself. I hate them for being alive, for breathing. I hate myself for being so weak, I hate myself for being so afraid.

Will the pain be bigger if I accept my fear?

Will it be that bad if I just give up and admit I murdered Burbage?

Fear steals my wits. Fear is a vicious circle.

I fear fear. I hate fear. I don't fear hate. Hate is the only factual thing I have.

Hate is my only reality.

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*Nithered - cold, freezing, frozen (Yorkshire slang)


	4. The Years of Apprenticeship

_Me and my muse thank and hug everyone for their reviews, favs and alerts!:)_

_Keep them coming please; I need to know what you think. I always answer all the messages and reviews I receive so you won't feel like you are talking to the walls._

_The story starts to get on the way, only a few chapters before these two will meet so hang in there. ;)_

_I'll leave you to it. Enjoy!_

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"Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life." ~William Faulkner

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**The Years of A****pprenticeship**

_Beautiful, perfect, flawless… _She spinned slowly in delighted rapture breathing in the scent that would soon become part of her. Golden rays of light fell on her closed eyes and she took comfort in the forgiving glow she saw through her shut lids, a glow that spread through her chest, calming, soothing. She opened her eyes unhurriedly, not wanting that first moment to go away, knowing that nothing compares to novelty, to the very first taste of something.

She turned to her right, looking for the soft light pouring through one of the tall stained-glass windows. The window was made of three parts, each thinning in elegant gothic arches as they reached the ceiling. It stood tall and noble as if priding itself with the small, transparent Griffindors that gradually began fighting on the farthest of its panes to the right only to valiantly defeat the enemies on the last one. She smiled at the scenes noting the irony in the representation, all the small people fighting for survival wore traditional robes painted in detail with very intricate designs in colours that showed their loyalties and house affiliations. The only ones that did wear traditional clothing that day were actually their antagonists.

She searched for the image of herself. A small, red and gold clad young woman with a large mane of curly hair and a fierce expression on her face came in sight. Whoever created the stained glass made an idol out of her, she represented the essential resistance hero, she looked brave and determined, saintly in the way her cheek was hollowed and her eyebrows knitted in divine ambition. She thought of Joanne D'Arc.

Arms encircled her. A strong chest leaned against her back and a cheek grazed her shoulder softly.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she whispered.

"Not more than you."

She leaned back into his embrace closing her eyes.

"Don't make the poor house jealous Ron, remember what Harry said about those ancient manors having a life of their own…I wouldn't want it to lock me out in the blizzard one of these days." She laughed. The rumble of his light chuckle vibrated down her back.

"Let's see it do that…" he planted a light kiss on her temple and walked briskly to one of the armchairs that surrounded the round coffee table in front of the fireplace. "Don't worry love, mother hen took care of the house - nothing can touch us when mum takes care of security stuff." He sighed and sank between the lush pillows on the fireside chair. "Finally done! I can't believe it. No more cleaning, rebuilding, modernizing, redecorating, charming, warding…What was it, six, seven months?" He rubbed his temples with closed eyes. A small purple light filtered by the colourful stained glass was playing on his left cheek.

"Almost six, but it was worth it, you must agree." She smiled and joined him, sitting by the crackling fire. "Harry was right; we deserve a place like this…"

"Yeah…" he said thoughtfully. "Have you seen the gardens? Amazing…the lake, that tiny glade, that huge sitting area by the glade…What do you call that - that terrace with white benches and all covered in ivy?" he looked at her with wide blue eyes.

"The pavilion? Yes, it's amazing, that. My favourite is the labyrinth though…I can't wait to explore it." She smiled wistfully. He nodded.

"Yep, that'll be wicked. It'll have to wait a few months though; you'll sink knee deep in the snow that clutters those tiny alleyways now."

"I love this snow - reminds me of Hogwarts."

"Yeah, it's really something else, though we won't probably see a winter like this another ten years from now."

"Ten years –"she looked in the distance smiling. "– enough time for some little Weasleys to enjoy it." She stood up and smiled at his stunned but pleased expression. "Some tea, Ron?"

"Sure, that sounds great, 'Mione!"

She adored the house and upon exiting the parlour to go to the kitchens she thanked all the deities for having a friend like Harry.

The narrow staircase spiralled down to a gothic wooden door. She pushed the ornate handle and the door opened to a wide, light room. It was a typical medieval high class kitchen; she imagined that in the past a heavy wooden table stood in the middle, hundreds of herb sheaves hanging on strings over it. She could just see the freshly hunted rabbits and partridges hung among copper and tin pots around the huge hearth. For a reason or another she was reminded of the first few pages of one very dear novel of hers. Indeed, a couple of centuries ago the kitchen and the parlour area of her house couldn't have looked much different from those at the house in Wuthering Heights. Actually, it didn't look much different now. The furniture was a bit simpler, being modern, the space was less cluttered thanks to shrinking spells and of course there was no trace of any kind of killed foul anywhere in sight, but otherwise it still looked like any other traditional, respectable, rather rustic kitchen.

Large windows opened to the garden and another door like the one she came through stood beside them. She went to look out into the garden. The snow was covering all the trees and shrubs, the clear, crisp sunlight making everything look silent and serene. The view matched her state of mind perfectly; one year ago precisely a raging tempest would have matched it. The change was something that, during the war, she didn't even dare dream of.

She shook herself out of her musings and remembered her initial task.

After brewing an aromatic Earl Grey on the terracotta stove connected to the large hearth she walked back up to the parlour surrounded by fragrant vapours twirling lazily from the pot. She heard muffled voices from behind the door. She balanced the tea tray carefully on one hand while pushing the heavy door open with the other. Ron was standing with his back at her facing the fireplace. The voices were still indistinguishable and not until she approached him enough to see his expression did she spotted Harry's face in the hearth.

"– I see no problem with it as long as we know - it's only a matter of time until everyone understands the systems and ideologies…Hey 'Mione! How's the manor growing on you?" smiled Harry from the burning coals. She placed the tray on the table and came beside Ron laying a hand on his shoulder and looking between the two.

"We need to throw a party for you Harry! The manor is wonderful, we love it!" she cried with a wide grin on her face. "Don't we Ron?"

"Yeah, it's really great!" answered Ron with a put out smile. She looked pointedly at him and then back at Harry.

"Who sank your ships? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Hermione, it's just that Kingsley announced me that we must attend the Yule opening today after all…" said Harry morosely.

"Well, it was only normal. I was very surprised when he said that we can skip it." Hermione said matter-of-factly.

"This is stupid; we've been dragged about at every bloody speech and public gathering and I've been moving stuff for a week now, I'm dead tired…I don't want to go!" huffed Ron sagging back down into his chair.

"Ron, we must do this, people want to see us. Come on, it won't be that bad, there's even a reception afterwards." At seeing Ron frown even deeper Harry added laughing, "With booze and food…"

Hermione laughed heartily and threw a side glance at Ron.

"You can't pass that up love" she teased.

"Oh guys, come on, stop this already, it's not like I'm some bottomless pit…Look at me being bribed with food and drinks…" he threw his hands in the air. "Am I that easy?" he asked half serious.

"Err…yes you are actually." Laughed Harry at his friend's glare.

*

A few hours latter found them on the frozen steps of the manor holding onto each other in fear of slipping on the thin ice formed with the coming of evening. The air was dry and cold stinging their noses and clearing their minds. The only sounds were that of the snow being crushed under their feet and a faint barking echoing somewhere in the distance. She huddled closer to him as they stepped in the apparition point in the east side of the garden.

Arriving at the Leaky Cauldron was child's play; during the holydays that part of London was deserted and silent – actually making their way through the magical quarter was a problem. The picturesque magical street was teeming with witches and wizards of all ages, the stores were wide opened, some of the merchants taking their businesses in the middle of the street and yelling their offerings out loud. Little boys were running around with glowing stag horns adorning their heads while others wrapped in mock oak or holly leaves were chasing and fighting each other, some tripping their parents over in the process. Numerous lanterns were hanging in mid air casting their warm light over the gleaming buildings and equally gleaming faces. The atmosphere was even more whimsical than usual, the holiday air making everything look like a scene from a fairytale.

They pulled their hoods over their heads hiding from the unwanted attention that was sure to come if they were seen by the overexcited crowd. She had very confusing feelings about this; she was annoyed but secretly enjoyed the popularity. This unabashed hero worship they were receiving was an admittedly heady thing.

"Chocolate logs on fire! Smouldering, flaming chocolate logs! Come and get them while they're hot!" shrieked a thin man with a large moustache from her right. He was standing behind a tall table that seemed to have been taken over by a raging, crackling fire. On closer inspection one could spot tiny logs made of chocolate pilled under the billowing magical blaze.

They walked swiftly among the crowd, clinging to each other in silence. A large banner was hung from side to side above the street, "Yule 1999" sparkled red before gleaming gold and rearranging into deep green letters, "A New Age, A New Millennium – 2000". It looked beautiful and it gave hope, it was fitting the new world they were building. She smiled under the shadow of her cloak.

The crowd was concentrating as they approached Gringotts and they saw a tall wooden stage arranged just in front of the bank. It had the same banner that was hung on the street, this one bigger and even shinier than the former. A band was singing carols and people were swarming to get places closer to the stage and see the performers better.

They had to elbow their way through the mass of cloaks, furs or capes to reach the back of the stage. A large wooden cabin was improvised just next to the platform. The bulky guards identified them and opened the doors of the cabin for them.

"Through here Mr and Mrs Weasley" an assistant herded them inside and through a long corridor.

"It's Ms Granger," she said quietly to the overexcited young woman.

"Excuse me?" asked the woman distractedly.

"We are not married…yet." Answered Ron for her. The assistant looked startled and then apologised in an overly polite way.

They finally reached a tall door and entered what looked like a wide stone hall with a long table in the middle surrounded by heavy wooden chairs. Everyone was there, order members, ministry officials and Aurors were sitting around the table with steaming cups of tea or coffee in front of them. Harry was at the head of the table smiling brightly at the pair of them. Everyone erupted in cheers when they saw them and Hermione felt the blood go up into her cheeks.

"Finally you are here!" said Kingsley loud enough to cover the ruckus that the others were making.

"Yeah, we were a bit late, sorry." Greeted Ron with a wide grin.

"Hi Kings how are things?" Hermione quipped hugging the minister. He smiled his kind smile.

"Everything's fine Hermione, thanks. So sorry for dragging you up here today of all days" Smiled the dark man shaking Ron's hand. "Speaking of which, how's the Peverell mansion?"

"Great, we are just in the process of getting the hang of things around there", answered Ron.

"I hope that the Purifying team did a good job…" enquired the minister.

"Yes, they did great!" assured both Hermione and Ron in one voice. The older man smiled pleased at them and nodded.

"Hey 'Mione, Ron get over here," Beckoned Harry from the back of the room.

"Hey Harry, there you are!" waved Ron and grinned at his friend.

"Go on there by his side, we go on stage through there anyway, you'll be closer when that time comes", said Kingsley turning them by their shoulders in Harry's direction.

The hero of the wizarding world was looking beautiful, thought Hermione admiring her friend. He was standing tall and proud, smiling invitingly at them, hands clasped confidently at the back. His hair was combed though it still kept that careless, wavy look to it; his clothes were beautiful, luxurious black velvet cloak over a simple dark green suit. She remembered an equally handsome Harry wearing the same shade of green at the Yule Ball in their 4th year. Ginny was standing by his side looking equally striking in the royal blue winter cloak draped over her shoulders.

They hugged and talked for a while - catching up on the four moths they haven't seen each other. After the Passing Ritual that was performed on the property they had had no time to come together no matter how hard they tried. Hermione and Ron were always supervising the renovating of the house while Harry and Ginny had their personal problems. She was disappointed to see that for the first time since they met, years ago on the Hogwarts express, they have distanced from each other. It was expected and all the adults told her that the time would come when life would lead them on different paths but she didn't want to believe it, thinking that they were different. She knew deep inside that this was just the beginning and that it would come a time when they would only be colleagues, meeting only when the job demanded. Personal life will one day come first, friendship as they knew it would be just a beautiful memory.

"You need to come around for tea one day and see the house." Said Hermione to Ginny. The girl smiled at her and gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"We'll sure do Hermione, we must catch up on our girl talk…Merlin knows I've had enough of boisterous males at the Burrow lately." Hermione laughed at that.

"I've only had this one boisterous rooster over here. Though Ron is making up for all his brothers…" she laughed and Ron gave her a dirty look. "So how long until you move out of the Burrow?" asked Hermione eagerly. She knew that the two of them had been alternating between the Burrow and Grimmauld's Place, waiting for their house to be finished. Harry, saying that he wants to surprise them, didn't reveal a thing about his future residence. He planned to have the wedding there and said that that's when they'll see the place for the first time. Hermione could not understand his reason but decided that it probably had something to do with the Auror training that was soon to come. Perhaps he didn't want anything set in stone until his career issue was settled.

"You know how it is…Both me and Harry want to finish our studies first, to have something reliable before we start a family. We are still young, we have time. I'm not exactly up on having kids at this age to be honest…" trailed off Ginny with a sheepish smile confirming Hermione's suspicions.

"Yeah, I know…me neither…"Hermione shuddered.

Ron and Harry were having their own male bonding. Harry was grinning cheekily as Ron hit his shoulder playfully.

"- next week then it'll be, I don't care what you do but next week you'll be over for some Quidditch, I have this huge lawn in the back garden, we can fly like maniacs there." Ron beamed at Harry.

"Yeah, sure do Ron. We'll plan something for the next week, and pay you guys a visit" said Harry smiling at both of them and wrapping an arm around Ginny's shoulder, "Right, kitten?" he asked his girlfriend. Hermione winced and tried to hold back a giggle at hearing the slushy pet name Harry used. Ginny seemed to like it though. "Sure tomcat," she said and hugged him tightly around the waist. Hermione was literally fighting giggles by now and judging by his beet-red face, so was Ron.

"That will do guys. We need to be up there!" came auror Williamson, thankfully interrupting the awkward moment. Hermione was relieved to be able to turn her back at the future Potters and snicker discreetly.

They were all directed by a couple of witches to the entrance on the wide stage. The first thing she saw when she walked in front of the audience was a blinding golden light as the stage banner shuffled between its red and green messages. She kept her eyes on the enormous glinting poster that was now sparkling like a field of dew covered grass. The deep green relaxed her and she took a deep breath, the frozen air helping her gather some courage to face the crowd. She didn't even realize when they reached the middle of the arena; all she knew was that she squeezed Ron's hand so hard that her fingers ached.

"Good evening!" Kinsley's magnified voice erupted. The crowd broke in ovations and applauses as Hermione's stomach twisted, goose bumps pinching the skin on her arms. "Thank you so much for coming tonight!" continued the minister after the crowd stopped cheering. "We are here to celebrate the second Yule of peace and content. The second Yule that we can enjoy without the threat of Voldermort and his followers" people gasped. "I will ask you and actually encourage you to call him by his name. Don't fear something that is no longer here. Don't fear a shadow of a bad dream. If you fear to say his name you admit at bowing to a law that he invented. You keep the memory of his poisonous ideologies alive. There is no longer _He who must not be named_, because The Boy Who Lived vanquished him." Some endearing "Hey's" and "Yeah's" were heard from the public. "We must not bury, forget evil, we must remember and learn from it. We must never repeat evil by keeping it in mind. A great man said once, and I quote: 'The only thing we must fear is fear itself.' I'd say that these are the words you must keep in mind every time you are thinking of Voldermort." He paused for effect and then continued in a warm voice "I don't want to keep you here too much as we have some very wonderful people that I'm sure you'd rather see than your old, barmy minister." People laughed and Hermione's heart travelled into her throat. "Have a great Yule and a glorious New Year. Like the banner says, a new age, a new millennium…Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, The Golden Trio!" boomed Shaklebolt over the ecstatic roar of cheers.

The sound was deafening and the light was blinding her so that she couldn't make out a single, individual face among the mass of people. Harry walked up front, smiled and pointed his wand at his throat casting the Sonorous. They followed, standing a few feet behind him. Their colleagues kept their place in the back of the stage - just in front of the band - standing straight with congenial smiles plastered on their faces in front of the equally congenial, flashing poster. They were not there to say anything; they were there to prove how professional and well organized the ministry was. The people of the wizarding world only wanted to see the Golden Trio.

"_Potter, Potter, Potter…" _screamed the crowd in a single thundering voice.

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" Boomed Harry's amplified voice. Suddenly there was silence and he smiled pleasantly at the people. "You are wonderful, thank you for welcoming us so! I am so happy to be here tonight and see such joy in your eyes, joy that I didn't even dream to ever see again during the war. Freedom is joy, and you – we – are all free.

"Once I was a boy that had his good and not very good moments. At times I thought that I had no hope, that I will never be anything more than an unwanted orphan. When I least expected it everything changed and my eyes were opened to dreams I didn't even dare hope for, to opportunities that - as extraordinary as they were - seemed outlandish for a boy raised in the muggle world. I gathered friends that shared the same ideals and even though life has always pushed me to the edge of the knife nothing took my faith away. The faith I had in myself." He raised his hand to his heart and closed his eyes. People were transfixed, a deep silence looming over the whole quarter.

"The wonderful feeling of being free to do all that you wished your entire life…"he whispered. "To have the certainty that there is no one there anymore behind your back - hiding, planning - always looking for a way to bring you down, to subdue you and your dreams. Now that he is gone we can all get back to our lives, we can all start anew…" he paused and took a deep shaky breath. "We can all fulfil our dreams!" He said in a melodic voice and everyone went into hysterics again. "Our goal, as leaders of this new born world, is to rebuild what was demolished," he yelled, his voice mingling with that of the crowd, "to reintegrate what was banned. To do whatever we want, without being afraid of a taboo that our enemy has planted in our minds.

"Our minister, Mr Kingsley Shaklebolt, quoted a very dear friend of mine earlier and I want to add…" he stopped and laughed, the crowd's voice was covering any other sound, still chanting their heroes name as loud as they could. The sound was deafening and the energy of the enthusiastic crowd was so powerful that it brought tears to Hermione's eyes. He looked behind at them and grinned widely raising his arms in feigned confusion. He turned around and smiling he raised his hands to the people making them stop "…I want to add something else that this magnificent wizard had said to me once", he paused and people froze waiting for him to continue, "he said, 'Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.' I always keep that in mind and I want you to do the same. Never fear, never, ever fear!" yelling erupted again.

"From now on you will not be referring to him like you used to, like you were taught too, through FEAR, THROUGH TERROR!" he bellowed over the ruckus, "I want you to be exorcized of the FEAR and TERROR that he forced in you. I want you to be brave, fearless, and know that nothing can stop you!" people were in a frenzy of screams and whistles. "I want you to say his name and mock the reign of terror that he installed. Like banishing a boggart we will banish the memory of him by ridiculing his most precious law. The Taboo!" people screamed profanities at hearing the word. "I want to teach you to banish fear!" he shouted. "I want to hear you say his name, now! VOLDEMORT!" he bellowed over the crowd, his arms shooting into fists in front of him. "Say it and be cleansed of fear!" the crowd cheered and howled the name in a frenzy. _"VOLDEMORT, VOLDEMORT, VOLDEMORT!"_ Their faces contorted they were screaming the name they feared with frightening pleasure. She looked at Ron and he turned to her with an ecstatic smile on his face, his eyes twinkling merrily as his whole frame shook with his passionate clapping.

"He's good isn't he, our Harry?" he yelled over the noise. She smiled tightly at him and continued to clap, her palms tingling. The crowd kept shouting the name in a blast of noise, never stopping, never silencing. She covered her ears and through her palms she could make out Harry's voice again.

"Perfect!" he said pleased scanning the crowd. "Now you have nothing to fear. You are really liberated!" the crowd went silent and Harry bowed deeply at the people. "Thank you!" he whispered impressed. He turned to them then and Hermione's heart fell, she hoped that he would spare them. He signalled them to approach him and they complied.

Up front the floodlights were more blinding then ever. Hermione squinted her eyes and tried to see something in the crowd, all she could make out were dark outlines of the near by buildings followed by a sea of faces and hats of different colours and shapes. She smiled like she always did, at no one in particular.

"Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, everyone!" Harry said gesturing toward them with a wide flourish. They both bowed and in turn held their own uplifting speeches. People cheered, screamed and cried as she tried to be as concise and diplomatic as possible.

"Thank you, thank you everyone!" said Harry again. "Now let's stop the chit-chat and return to what's really important. The Yule celebration!" He cheered smiling widely, people followed in the same fashion. "AS OF THIS MOMENT I DECLARE THE HOLIDAY FESTIVITIES OPENED!" said Harry as fireworks lit the skies and people yelled again enthusiastically.

She took a deep breath and smiled at her friends. The whole thing done they bowed gracefully one more time and left the stage still smiling and waving at the cheering crowd. Their exit was accompanied by a glorious, thunderous and rather corny – she thought – musical composition that exploded from the band in the back of the stage.

They did not stay for the festivities. As soon as the traditional Yule log had been hoisted over the burning pyre they literally fled through a back door. She would have liked to stay, especially since she hadn't had time to go out for so long, Ron was annoyed and tired so she morosely fulfil his wish. The coming New Year's Eve was a consolation and she decided she will have her fill of excitement then.

The New Year didn't wait around much and before she knew it she found herself in one of the most fancy restaurants in Diagon Alley, dressed in her finest and sipping champagne with the Weasleys, the future Potters and all the others that were in anyway important enough to join their party. She would have normally found the situation snobbish and maybe a bit too much for them but was surprised to discover that she enjoyed pampering herself. She tried to fight the inclination towards indulgence she was developing but found that she couldn't and, really, didn't want to. Their life was beautiful and she wanted to enjoy the spoils. She had a beautiful house, a huge library, a wonderful boyfriend, everyone loved her and a glorious future was waiting for her. Why wouldn't she enjoy it? It didn't hurt anyone, she thought to herself as the clock stroke midnight on 31st of December 1999.

The days following the New Year party came with one more surprise. A not very pleasant one that she couldn't even conceive the morning she woke up under the blissful winter sun that fell on her face. She pulled the silky covers over her head hiding from the importunate light. She groaned, stretched and yawned, all at once, feeling particularly spoiled. Ron wasn't in bed with her, she noted, after sleepily fumbling through the sheets to find him. The Peverell bed - the heavy, immense, indecently decorated Peverell bed greeted her instead of her boyfriend. A bed she wouldn't have had the courage to choose for herself but now that the sombre object stoped intimidating her she could finally appreciate the dark fantastic wooden birds and the intricately carved tree with its flower burdened branches. She traced a finger along the age polished wood in fascination, trying to identify the tree.

A soft bell jingle woke her from her musings. Startled she turned around to the door to see the strange contraption that Ron insisted to install in every room quiver of its hinges - a mechanism that looked rather like a bunch of silver grapes and was there to help them summon each other easier in the immense house. The quiet jingle soon turned into an angry shriek, proof that the thing was in perfectly working order. Judging by the increasing racket and by the arms of the clock that indicated it was past noon Ron had been pulling at the connection strings of the device one two many times and by now was probably pacing up and down the living room wound up and hungry. She groaned while swinging her legs of the bed and hoping off the soft mattress with great effort.

The image and sounds that she was met with the moment she stepped into the parlour were surprisingly familiar but yet foreboding.

"– not until people are announced of the dangers and agree to report the smallest of oddities they see anywhere, can we…-" a very familiar voice spoke from the flaring hearth. Ron – hunched over the fireplace – interrupted the echoing voice.

"Harry this is a bit intrusive…I don't think…" Ron stopped suddenly and straightening his back he turned around to look at her. He smiled pleasantly and waved at her to approach.

"Hey, Harry, everything in order?" she greeted the face in the coals apprehensively, knowing that he must bring some unpleasant news judging by his sheepish smile.

"Not really, no. I was just saying to Ron here that Williamson flooed me a minute ago and announced that laws have changed…again and…" he stopped and looked at both of them guiltily. "I hate to burst your bubble but we're going to start Auror training a bit earlier." He spoke with a decisive tone.

She gapped at both of them for a moment. Neither of them looked half disappointed - in fact she was sure they were putting on the act of looking fittingly disgruntled just for her.

"B-but…weren't we supposed to start in the autumn? Who decided this? What is going on?" She blurted out still staring thin lipped at both of them.

"Hermione, things are happening, projects are in motion. I told you two too expect surprising things for the next few years from the Ministry. We need time to settle things and also we need to modernise the systems, we need to get the world out of the Dark Ages. We can't do that if we don't catch the remaining Death Eaters, they slow down our evolution. The pureblood ideology is not yet gone Hermione and I think you know best what their ideologies mean…" he looked at her pointedly and she couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down her spine at the memories Harry's words brought.

"Yes Harry, I know very well, you don't need to remind me. I just don't get it anymore. The law hasn't even been promulgated yet I'm sure, what with all this insanity with the duration of the studies. What is it now, one year, five, ten…?" she asked sarcastically.

"You are being irrational…" huffed Harry.

"And you are being disorganized!" interrupted Hermione. Ron looked between the two impatiently.

"'Mione…" said Harry softly. "We have no more time to wait, there are so many out there still going after innocent people, we need to get our Auror license and go hunting. Now that the doors of the Auror School have been opened to everyone, the studies have been compressed into whole years, rather than semesters. Fewer holidays, shorter time to become an Auror - the faster we get our licenses the more we can help." He said resolute. "You can do whatever you want though…no one is forcing you." He added softly with a hint of resentment in his voice.

She looked pensively at the crackling fire surrounding Harry's face. Ron waited for her verdict as if he didn't have a mind of his own. She glared shortly at him and was about to tell him to do whatever he wanted and stop hanging on her every word. She chastised herself on that when realising it was preferable to have the upper hand in all types of relationships and even more so with him since Ron would always need a walking stick to lean on. It was hard for him to make decisions without having someone approve of them. If he didn't have her he would turn to Harry and she preferred to know that her future husband is searching her for confirmation.

She had a strange sense of dread that she could not explain. Was it that she still needed peace? Was it because Auror training would bring so many memories back? Or perhaps she was just terribly undecided? She couldn't explain this feeling she had. It was something beyond reason, a fog that overwhelmed her mental facilities – a sort of turning point, like time was now the one deciding in her stead.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the parlour seemed to confirm her fear by throwing another dark veil over her conscience with its each sombre tick. As if bowing to a real life being's will she committed herself to this most reachable representative of time, the clock. She wished she could make the ominous envoy of time behind her vow in its master's name that her hasty action will be carefully managed.

Time heals everything - she steeled herself – even indecision.

"How long?" She asked in the most determined voice she could muster.

"Excuse me?' asked Harry bemused.

"How long is the training and when does it start?"

Harry still looked amusingly bemused at her and with a lopsided grin that showed his undeniable satisfaction answered her question.

"I'll quote the official proclamation posted at the Department of Education" he said professionally. "'The opening is on 1st of February and the maximum duration of the studies is three years."


	5. The Years Of Toil

_I apologize for the delay in updating this but unfortunately personal life got in the way. That mixed in with the fact that my inspiration had been lacking lately led to a long and infuriating procrastination. I'm back now and hopefully will be updating faster._

_Oh, how I'd love to write fan-fiction for a living..._

"We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict." ~ Jim Morrison

* * *

**The Years of Toil**

"Three years until further notice." Drawls the owl eyed judge glaring over his tall desk at me. He seals the sentence with a decisive hit of his hammer. "Next!" he screeches with a self sufficient expression.

I'm so surprised that I'm about to loose my wits and remind him of my life sentence. Whatever they give us before the trials must have fried my brain by now. How else can I explain this uncontrollable inclination towards self sabotage?

I'm supposed to be glad, happy, skipping, God damn it! I don't feel a thing. No uncommon optimism or at least the smallest trace of hope. I have to admit that I have never went out of my way with enthusiasm, much to everyone's dismay, but still, this would be a good time to be at least a little "cheerful".

Cheerful…if that is not a concept that clashes with my persona, I don't know what does…

"_Hogberry_" smiles at me from across the room. I force my expression into my rather worn but well known, "friendly sneer", how Draco used to scornfully call it. The boy was actually jealous of my vast assortment of facial expressions seemingly because his were reduced to _mope, sulk and gloat. _I never had the heart to tell him that mine weren't a reason to be proud of; rather they were proof of years and years of calculation and observation. Stupid, boring little things that I had to carefully work on in order to climb the damned social ladder.

Like I wouldn't have liked living high of the hog like my son did. To wantonly get everything I want from my foolish parents only with a lift of my finger…

I'm dragged, pushed and yelled at by one of the guards. I walk to the door out of the court room while still trying to understand the machinations of this new government. Last time St. Potter himself gloatingly announced me that my bones will rot in Azkaban and now they give me three years…

Hollingberry came back again a couple of months ago, paced and drone on for thirty minutes about the New Glorious Era that is now rising and shedding it's enlightening, revolutionary ideas upon the darkest, most medieval corners of the wizarding world.

I did not know that revolution, in their minds, equals chaos and indecision. There is something terribly odd here and I just can't put my finger on it. It has given me sleepless nights; it will drive me mad soon. It's such a tangled web that at this point it gives me the feeling that I'll never get to the bottom of it. One thing I know for sure, that "_until further notice_" leaves the door opened to numerous possibilities. So, I can brood in peace, knowing that the three years sentence – _until further notice –_ is an admittedly empirical way for them to steer clear from any kind of explanation next time the government spouts out another _revolutionary idea_.

The guard jabs me in the ribs with his wand and I climb the small wooden stairs into the dingy Thestral carriage. My hands tied together at the back I need to literally flounce myself inside and onto the long bench like I'm some sort of walking, talking potato sack. The dizziness doesn't help either - it's obvious by the lopsided smirk the guard throws at me that I must have looked positively pathetic during my little performance.

The metal doors moan and shriek as they are pushed and fitted back into place. My mind dutifully returns to dissecting, analyzing and cutting fine every possible or rather improbable interest or goal the new leaders might be led by.

Even here, so high up in the air, where I surprisingly have an illusion of freedom my mind works furiously. I am being taken back to the Limbo where I will be spending God knows how long and I feel strangely free. It is only physical, my mind is not free and perhaps it will never truly be but yet my body, in its instinctual naïveté, enjoys the exhilarating sways of the carriage and the small string of current pouring in through a crack in the shabby door. This is perhaps the last thing I will enjoy for a long while, flying in this rusty, metal box.

The moon is almost full, I can see it white and gleaming, her surprised expression almost entirely revealed. It has a face, I have seen it since I was a small child, it is so feminine in its expression that it almost makes me feel ashamed when looking at it. A round pale face with two wide, startled eyes and a small mouth shaped in a perfect "o" looms over the world and its people with blatant shock, like a prudish old lady who just heard her grandsons swear for the first time in her life.

My parents were very fond of astrology and astronomy so when I was born they calculated all the possible details. Astrologically I am ruled by this bashful old spinster, the moon and I never thought I had anything in common with her, despite the fact that my parents, when they named me, created the most nauseatingly romantic story – a name that would represent this livid luminary that gapes her mouth at me now – they chose the Latin word for "light" and so I'm supposed to be some "light" in the darkness, like the moon. My parents had a sense of humour, I must give them that.

We are flying over the North Sea already. Time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it?

I can see waves glistening over the pitch black water; they look cold and rather tall. I'm wondering if pushing myself into the shaky door until it gives in and then jumping out the carriage will kill me.

Of course it will. If only I had been an animagus, a bird or a fish, to fly or swim to freedom rather than sink to the bottom of the sea like a rock, hogtied as I am. Actually, judging by the height we are flying at I wouldn't even drown properly, the water would act like a stone surface and crush me into an unrecognizable mass. My mind has the bad habit of thinking gruesome thoughts every time I let it be idle. I must return to some safer ground - analyzing.

I suspect it is past three o'clock in the morning. They brought me to London by night and they took care to return me to Azkaban before sunrise. They'd rather spend their night in the courtroom than allow us to get a glimpse of the sunlight, to be touched by a bit of warmth.

What no one knows is that in Azkaban the first thing they do is put you in the dark and literally suffocate you by letting very little air enter the cell. I have a small window in my cell but it is covered with a magical shield that prevents the smallest ray of light to come through and also acts as anti ventilation spell, letting in only enough air to keep us alive. The air here is rich, moist and smells of sea, I can breathe properly at last.

If only we could linger up here for a while more until the sun rises. I haven't seen the sunlight in almost two years.

*

_Stone, cold rugged stone under his palms. He clenches his fingers slightly and digs his nails into the brittle pavement to fight the urge, the overwhelming urge to look up. _

_It is not the first time he finds himself in this precarious situation, it is not the first time his ego is dragged through muck, and it is not the first time he is reduced to nothing. It is said that being humbled is good for one's morals. Is this good for his morals? Is this good for anything? Does he have any morals? _

_Only in His presence he presents himself this way, only He manages to strip him of his own self. Would he grovel on all fours so pathetically in front of anyone else? He cringes at the thought! Is he doing this out of some divine revelation? Is his soul conviction that this thing holds the keys to absolute truth? What a joke. He almost laughs at his own thoughts but it probably comes out more as a quiet, pitiful sob because his master, the thing, chuckles, stops his pacing and comes to him. All the black amusement is suddenly replaced by dread and his heart starts to race, chocking him. He is not young anymore, his heart is old and worn out, he feels it fluttering strangely in his chest like it's about to loose its natural rhythm and stop. He opens his mouth to try and take a deep breath but he can't. He starts to panic even more and all his upper body shakes. Crevasses, small cracks and tiny pebbles in the pavement under his hands, he tries to count them, analyze them, distracting himself from the now. _

_Those enormous shoes come into his line of sight. They are black and strangely shaped to hide their owner's abnormal feet. He knows he is close to insanity as he wildly thinks of taking out his small pocket knife and bury it to the hilt in that shoe. He fears those thoughts now because with age they turned from fleeting, censored ideas to actual desires. They are like weeds that grew thick roots in his mind and he fears that one day they will strangle his conscience and self control and turn him in the beast he hides._

"_So pathetic you have become my friend...I thought that one day those yearnings of yours will be directed to more productive endeavours than planting a kitchen knife in my toe…How pitiful, how wretched! Are you not ashamed of your clumsiness my dear scheming friend?" The voice whispers from above him. This is his master, this is the man that knew all along his inner thoughts, knew him capable of having such strange wants and was all the more pleased to have him as minion. _

"_Self control is best achieved by people like you. A wild, tempestuous tendency in a vain nature is what makes the perfect lieutenant. A wild, tempestuous tendency in a selfless, loyal but rather unstable nature is what makes the perfect follower…soldier. You, Lucius, are not a perfect follower. You may take it as a compliment of course, though I know you are not that stupid…" he can actually hear him smile above him. A moment of silence when he dreads whatever his master is considering, and then a harsh sigh fills the silent room - "Who do you serve Lucius?" he asks in a strangely amused voice._

"_You, my Lord!" he hears himself croaking. _

"_Who, Lucius?" the voice is harsher now, more demanding._

"_The Great Lord of Truth and Immortality!" he utters with more certainty knowing that certainty is what he wants from him. He hears him chuckling and watches the large feet move away slightly._

"_Say the oath, Lucius." the Lord speaks in a fascinatingly deep and melodic voice. "On your knees, look at me when you say it. I want to see your eyes." He commands._

_He drags his hands on the dusty floor and stands up on his knees slowly. He can't get over and can't get used to his ghastly appearance. It defies logic the way he looks and not because of how hideous he is but because everything about him is wrong – against nature. Yet - despite the utter surrealistic air surrounding his return from the dead - the Dark Lord had never seemed as real as he did now, never as determined to reach his goals and never as present in their lives._

_He empties his mind of memories, mundane worries and himself as he looks into the gaping scarlet holes that glow like two rubies incrusted in marble. The Lord's face is white and translucent, like brittle eggshell and his mouth partially toothless. He actually smiles and it is the most sinister sight. He waits for him to tie another chain around his soul. He waits for him to say the oath for the second time, to bring himself closer to damnation._

"_May my soul be shattered and my flesh burn _

_My bones crushed and my spirit torn,_

_May I cry in agony and drown in sorrow_

_If perfidy I have in sight on the morrow._

_I shall serve the Great Dark Lord_

_His will is my sword_

_His interest is mine,_

_His wish is my own_

_Now as before, _

_Forever until I am no more._

_So mote it be." _

_He bows his head, showing respect to the words he just spoke. The Death Eater's poem, how he likes to call it, the Dark Lord always had a penchant for playing with words and he always liked using this talent to attract people. At the beginning he believed those charming words and they triggered very deep feelings of loyalty, now he is bored and fed up. He hides behind his boredom, fools himself that it is the only reason for his reluctance to be a part of this insanity when, in secret, he knows that the threat of the oath looms over him like a sinister bird of pray - his hesitation is pure, primal fear. One day soon the Dark Lord will be upset and will make him say the oath again, one last time and he will be "no more". Potter and his friends escaped him, twice, and the last time from his own home, literally from within his grasp. If the war goes on longer - considering that he doesn't even have a wand anymore - it's quite probable that it will happen one more time - one last time._

_A shiver runs through him but he hides it well, he never shows weakness to anyone, especially to the Dark Lord. He keeps gazing into the scarlet holes and it makes him lightheaded. _

"_Good, Lucius, another stone around your neck." He moves his red gaze away and starts pacing around him with ostentatious delight. "I am sure you know that there won't be a next time. Lord Voldermort gives everyone equal chances – I gave each of you three equal chances to redeem yourselves in the unfortunate case you fail me. Considering your shameful past, Lucius, this should have been your third oath taking. I forgave you for not returning to me after my rebirth because I am a merciful Lord." He stands in front of him again and pins him with a hard stare. "Am I not merciful?' His voice is a mere whisper, hissed quietly through clenched teeth, but yet clear, frightening and unsurprisingly effective. _

"_Yes, my Lord, you are." _

"_Of course I am…" his inimitable throaty chuckle fills the room. "Your thoughts are disloyal Lucius." The melodic, hypnotising tone is back._

"_My Lord…I would never…"_

"_DON'T! Don't excuse yourself again, it's getting quite tiring."_

_He bows his head and refrains from making any comment, the command to be silent clear as day. The Dark Lord breaths harshly, controlling his anger and then finally speaks._

"_It doesn't matter anyway. Your treacherous thoughts are meaningless," he trails off, seemingly pondering on something. "unless you have decided to take the easy, cowardly way out. Are you feeling suicidal, Lucius?" The Dark Lord sounds amused again and it makes him feel nauseous. _

"_Of course not, my Lord, you know me better than anyone. It's not in my character to turn to such foolish act."_

"_Foolish indeed, such act is beneath you…" he mocks him. "If you can't be truthful to yourself than to whom would you be? The reality is that you are a practical and realistic man before anything else…You know you cannot ever escape me. I will always own you Lucius, you always knew that. All of you know. As it is you need to pay for acting against my will…" A twisted grin stretches his face, he steps a few paces back and points his crooked wand at him. It is a mere whisper in the deep, echoing silence of the hall, but uttered with such malignancy that it shakes the building with its power._

"_Crucio!" The light hits him straight in the chest and the familiar pain somehow seems to shatter the image in front of his eyes. The scream is strange, alien to him, it's not his voice, it's like he is a mere spectator to the torture. The overwhelming power of the spell travels in his head and he panics thinking that his skull might explode in a thousand pieces. It's short, merely a few seconds but it feels like he has been under the Cruciatus his whole life. He finally feels the scraping of stone, a sure sign that he is conscious enough to know that he has fallen on his side and his cheek collided with the pavement._

"_I have much more important things to do than waste my time here with you; though I dare say that you have learned your lesson." The words echo through his head like spoken from the bottom of a well. He feels cold fingers lifting his left arm slowly. He opens his eyes to see the Dark Lord pull up his robe sleeve and reveal the Mark imprinted on the pale skin of his left wrist. He doesn't even try to hide his shivering anymore; the Crucio depleted him of any energy and will to react in his usual way. _

_A sharp sting runs through his wrist as the Dark Lord touches the Dark Mark with his wand. Terror wakes him from his pain induced inertia and his muscles tense instinctually in expectancy of what he know is about to come. The Dark Lord discovered a new way of using the Cruciatus, casting it directly on their Dark Marks, obviously by doing that and even more so when he is in one of his foul moods, the agony is doubled – utterly unbearable. _

"_Crucio!" The soft, almost tender whisper burns like liquid fire through his veins and spreads through the body._

Screams, yells, shouts, this time loud and clear - and apparently mine - rake through my brain and I sit up breathing large mouthfuls of moist air and clutching my wrist. My eyes are wide and I look around through the darkness like a terrified rodent.

"What the hell Lucius?" my cellmate grumbles groggily. "Screaming like a bloody girl…you woke me up, damn it!"

"Shut up Lestrange!" My voice is hoarse and my throat sore. I look through the darkness at Rodolphus. Yes, I share my cell with Bella's dear husband - the joy.

Seeing his bearded face and wild hair makes me feel oddly safe, I know now that it was just a dream, nothing real. I'm myself now at last, my dream was impersonal, yet I was a spectator that actively participated at the show. Like diving into a Pensieve, watching the memories of a torture victim and sharing their pain.

I rub at my left wrist – the pain was so real. There are things that I will never forget; of course this place doesn't help either.

The room is dark and I'm greeted by the smell of stale air and faeces. Rodolphus keeps looking at me; I can see his face turned to me from the corner of my eye.

"What?" I hiss at him without taking my eyes away from the spot on the wall I've been watching since I woke up.

"Ah, nothing…Just starting to ask myself if you are being remorseful all of a sudden, you know, with all the nightmares you've bee having. Careful, remorse makes you soft." He concludes rising from his bed and walking to the door. "Urgh, bloody fuckers shut the 'peeping hole' again…"

"What, you miss the view?" I can't help laughing at him. Boredom turned him into an old lady. He hangs by the small eyehole, looking out for hours on end. Of course wardens rarely pass the hallway - when they bring a new prisoner it's the event of the day and when they decide to close the tiny window Lestrange is in the foulest of moods.

"Shut up, Lucius!" he grumbles and returns to his cot. He sits heavily and the rusty springs moan under his weight. He wipes a hand over his face from the forehead down over his beard and looks back up at me. "What would you have me do? Sit around like a statue, like you? There are things I need to understand, and I can't do it if I don't learn their patterns of work." Oh, here we go again. We've been discussing our conspiracy theories thousands of times and neither wants to accept the other's opinion - him, because he has always been a pig-headed brute, like his wife; me, on the other hand, I'm rejecting his delusions simply by principle.

"There is no pattern…the Auror catches one, brings him in and that's that! There is no specific hour, day or month when they do it. The only 'pattern' is in the time when we are fed or taken to work. And that is important only if you sprouted the idiotic idea of trying to escape. Which I hope you haven't…" I turn around and sit on the edge of my cot to face him. He seems overly excited for some reason.

"Of course not!" he waves a dismissive hand toward me. "I know it's close to impossible…"

"That if you are not feeling suicidal." I interrupt his upcoming tirade with a direct quote from my dream. The realization of what I said makes me shiver.

"Yeah…sure." He doesn't seem to notice, instead he returns with fervour to his new interest. "At five, breakfast, at five thirty we go out to work. At five PM, lunch, back to work and then at nine – lights off, right?" he looks hopeful at me. I nod with bemusement. "What happens during the night that doesn't happen during the day?" He's lost his mind. I shrug and wait for whatever aberration he is about to spout this time.

"We rest?" I make it a question. I never knew exactly how to behave around people with mental issues, even though I have spent all my life among them.

"Not 'what we do', Lucius, but 'what happens'?"

"Rodolphus spit it out; I want to get back to sleep!" He grabs at the end of his beard and twirls it around his fingers; he has grown fond of twisting and pulling at his beard when he's stressed. We are not allowed to shave, comb our hair or knotted whiskers in here and the jail looks as if populated by an army of Dumbledores. My beard has already reached my collarbone and Rodolphus looks like a smaller version of Hagrid.

He bends forward to me and whispers, "They close the peeping hole at night!" I look at him and ask him with my eyes what he means. "Listen here." He leans back and adopts what it supposed to be a commanding posture. "They leave it opened all day, they communicate with us through it, but at night they close it, regularly. Though, theoretically, they have no reason to do it, no one walks the hallways then and even if they did it's not like they want to make sure we are not disturbed from our beauty sleep. Following me? Right, then why?" He stands up and walks back to the door. The latch by which they open the porthole is on the outside and he tries to slide it open by gliding his palms forcefully along the smooth steel. He fails for the hundredth time. "I have stayed awake a few times and I heard sounds, voices on the other side of the door. They don't sit around doing nothing at night, mate." He shakes his head knowingly at me. 'I know they don't sleep at night, you idiot', I yearn to tell him, but I stop myself dreading his paranoia. I know what he suspects. It's the thing that has been whispered among the prisoners for months, the thing I have feared for even longer. I know that if I keep my cool I have higher chances to pass unnoticed and if they ignore me I will not be subjected to whatever it is they are doing to some of us at night.

"Rodolphus, get to sleep, you're babbling." I slide my feet back under the dirty blanket and turn to face the wall.

"They are brainwashing us, you oblivious moron!" Oh, the revelation, Rodolphus Lestrange discovers the Earth is round!

"I will pretend you didn't just call me that, Rodolphus, for simplicity's sake," I speak to the wall in front of me, without bothering to turn back to him. "you are my cellmate, I'm not in the mood for drama following me even here in the cell. And speaking of brainwashing, you should remember you are supposed to be used to it and you should realise that in the given situation such a thing is highly improbable. It _is_ better for us if we don't believe those things _out loud_. There is no such thing as brainwashing in Azkaban, Rodolphus." Poor lunatic will get himself in trouble again with his lack of tact and by habit will drag me down with him.

I can hear him breathe loudly and I ignore him. He grumbles for a while, shuffling through the room, his feet rustling the straw scattered on the floor and then a loud, metallic screech announces me that he got back into bed.

As I try to fall asleep I hear a gruff laughter muffled by the door that separates our cell from whoever is issuing it. It sounds like something heavy being dragged on the stone floor. Unintelligible words ring into my ears before fading in the distance, along with the dragging sound.

"I told you!" whispers Rodolphus.

*

Stone, mortar, another stone, another scoop of mortar, stone, mortar, stone, mortar. I'm dizzy; fortunately soon I'll be reaching the end of the wall. I'll finish the corner and then continue to the other wall. After that I hope to get a break. I look at the Goyle boy blending the mortar energetically with a long iron rod. The boy looks like he has an excess of vitality and I'm thinking he should put it to better use by building the wall instead of stirring through a bucket.

It is the first time after two months when I'm not trapped between stone walls. The guards took us out to work today and then they formed a large circle around us supervising and 'motivating' us with insults and random kicks in the shin or arse. They stand wrapped up to their teeth in thick woollen cloaks, while we are wearing meagre, moth eaten, light overcoats. We are perhaps one hundred men here, half frozen, some half dead, building an adjoining building. They didn't tell us what it is for but by the size of it I suspect the goal is to enlarge the prison. There has been talk that we are so many that Azkaban can't contain all of us. It isn't only a rumour because I have met people from all over the world in here lately; there is even one fellow from Korea. From the sign and grunt language I was able to improvise with him I understood that he once made some trading business with Avery and that is why he is here. They accused him of trading dark magic items.

Azkaban is truly an internationally recognized and appreciated prison. I must be proud to be a part of such a successful and respected institution, therefore to show my appreciation I piss on its walls whenever I get the chance. It gives me such an unexplainable and in the same time mediocre satisfaction. This place is turning me into an animal.

I reach the corner. Borgin follows me to hand in the stones. His skinny arms rise to me with a new one. A strong wind blows around me, like a miniature tornado. "I need a brake Borgin!" I yell over the howling wind at the husk of a man in front of me. "And so do you!" He smiles a grim, toothless smile and says something, but his voice is too weak and I don't understand. "I'll get young Goyle to finish, you need to do something easier, you look terrible. Wait here I'll talk to Gregory." I yell in his ear. He nods and drops the heavy stone to the ground and then proceeds to sit on it. I grab him by his upper arm and keep him on his feet. "Stand up man. You want to get beaten to death? Stand and wait." I look him sharply in the eye trying to remind him who I am and how he used to obey me once in everything. I have a little responsibility for him – he helped me in many occasions with my collection of dubious items and besides it's obvious that he won't last long, he is extremely sick. He nods and straightens his back shakily.

I go straight to Goyle gathering my gnawed coat around my body along the way. The wind is incredible in its power, it almost forces reverence.

I reach the boy. He looks startled for a moment and then relaxes when he sees me. "Won't you take pity on an old man and work on that side of the wall?" I point at the wizened Borgin that stands in the middle of the bustling workers. "Take Nott or Zabini and let me and Borgin take it from here."

"Yes sir." He says and I take the steel rod from his hands and wave at Borgin to join me. The wind brings tears to my eyes and I need to squint to see Goyle's face. "Have you seen Draco today, Gregory?" I ask him. He turns around, hair whipping around his face. He seems hesitant and almost frightened. He makes to open his mouth but then looks down to the ground. I frown at him and he looks even more frightened. "What is it boy? What happened?"

"I…I don't know how to say this, sir…I…I" he looks at me doing a very good impression of a fish out of water.

"Gregory, what happened?" I grab one of his shoulders and shake him a little. He thins his lips and looks cautiously at the guards.

"I haven't seen him since yesterday…" he stutters and then looks behind me. "Mr. Lestrange, he told me that he is in the hospital wing." My heart travels in my throat and as I follow Goyle's gaze my eyes land on Rodolphus, mere metres away watching us intently. I haven't seen my cellmate since morning when they brought us here to work; perhaps he just didn't have the opportunity to tell me. I have a powerful feeling that something bad happened to my son.

"_What happened, Goyle? I swear if you don't tell me I'll…"_my voice shakes with fury and Goyle's whimpering face just asks to be punched. I calm down and push the boy away turning to Lestrange and practically running towards him. The man puts his shovel aside and looks at me with something akin to anticipation. I hope it's just my overactive imagination, but Lestrange has been acting odder and odder these past few months. It's been one year and a half since I've been given the three years sentence, one year and a half since Lestrange was spying on the guards and scratching their daily and nightly schedule on the stone under his bed with a tiny nail he extracted from a table in the canteen. He stoped doing this for a while now, instead he sits on his cot, thinking, seemingly planning. He is more silent, sometimes almost self assured. I want to believe that he lost his mind, I honestly, deeply want to fool myself into thinking this is only insanity. But it is obvious - he's always been too obvious to me. There is something that makes him feel superior and a proud Lestrange is as transparent as Severus' obsessively scrubbed potion flasks.

Severus. It's one of those times when I'm in dire need of his calming, dry sarcasm.

"Rodolphus, we need to talk." I grab him by his sleeve and drag him behind one of the walls, away from the prying eyes of the guards.

"What is it Lucius? You alright?" he tries to sound casual – he fails.

"Cut it out!" I hiss at him as quietly as I can. "What happened to my son? Tell me now!"

"Ah, yes. I meant to tell you earlier but with all this hustle and bustle 'round here…" he shrugs and looks down morosely. "Goyle asked me earlier because he didn't see him last night. I only just found out myself from one of the boys at lunch. I honestly – at one point – thought you knew…" he looks me in the eye and sighs, I urge him to continue. "He's been beaten, Lucius. Beaten like a punching bag by Husher. It seems they've taken him to interrogation last night and he lost it, he jumped the man with a knife he smuggled from somewhere, cut him around a bit and, well, you know how that filthy squib is. He's beaten him, disfigured him from what I heard from those that saw him being taken to the healers. They were saying he had blood all over his face and the stretcher was soaked through." He whispers. "It was bad! At least he's alive…" he trails off. If there is anything I fear is that my heart will fail me and I won't finish my sentence and live to see Draco and Cissy out of here. I hate it sometimes, I hate its weak flutter in my chest, and I hate how it chokes me and forces me to take desperate gulps of air.

I lean against the wall with Lestrange beside me watching me attentively. I look around at the guards, some are huddled together in a corner guffawing like morons and another herd is watching a group of prisoners to my left in the farthest side of the wall, the others are scattered throughout the yard. There is only one I need to see, only one I'm looking for and suddenly I spot him, just few metres away hitting a prisoner over the head with his cane. Having fun, are you? There is nothing lower and more worthless in its mere existence than Husher.

I feel my hand pushing Lestrange aside and I put my head in my chest, making my way to my target. I don't have to work to control my outer image anymore. I can easily appear normal, calm even while I'm on my way to destroy someone. It is a wonderful ability, fire, on the inside, ice on the outside – and now no one suspects what I'm about to do.

I reach him in a blink of an eye and as I'm standing behind him hearing only his voice as he yells at the miserable bundle at his feet, I debate what would be the easiest way to kill him. Strangle him effectively from the behind or hit him in the head repeatedly. Neither – I need to get my satisfaction from something; I need to see his face.

"Husher." I hear my surprisingly controlled voice. He hears me; he stops his tirade of mumbled oaths and turns his pudgy frame to me.

"Malfoy? What d'ye' want? If ye' want a bit of this," he brandishes his cane around, "ye' need te' wait for yer turn." He laughs looking very proud of himself. He straightens his back and lifts his head up to appear taller than he already is. His Adam's apple protrudes as he pulls his shoulders down – this is too easy. Stupidity, as useful as it can be in others, it is still disappointing.

"If one day the impossible happens and you do that," I point at the shivering prisoner behind him, "with a wand I think I would actually stand in line for my turn." It is so easy to provoke him that it's almost mind-numbing.

"Yer' really askin' fer' it, are you?" he growls and lifts his chin even higher, his neck even more exposed.

"_I know it's hard for you, but you should really keep that hole you call mouth shut, one day you might find it ripped off."_ I hiss and approach him, my hand trembling beside me, yearning to rip the quivering apple in his neck. He laughs loudly and his head falls back. This is my chance.

"Threatenin' again, are ya…" his words die as I launch myself at him and curl my fingers in an iron grip around the protruding cartilage in his neck. He roars in pain and tries to escape me while clutching at my arm in desperation. I feel my fingers sinking deeper into his flesh and his yells are gurgled and suffocated. It all happens extremely fast - he staggers away from me and into a wall behind him, I follow him and in mere seconds I'm on top of him and out of my mind with rage.

It is one of those moments when time seems to stop. A force I thought burned out runs through my veins and there is nothing else that matters in this world but revenge. I forget everything, the place, the people; all I see is Husher and all I feel is whatever demon drives me to do this. His cry reverberates around me as his pudgy fist launches itself straight towards my face. What's left of my famed duelling skills takes over and I duck. I have been praying for this moment for almost two years, for two years I wished to beat the pulp out of this animal. I'm blinded by fury, I sink my feet and knees into his fat gut, I break his bones with my fists and I swear and yell and detest and abhor…

"This is for my son, you foul, mindless, worm! Die, I'm going to KILL YOU!" I pummel him to the ground and twist my fingers into the collar of his shirt bringing his face closer to my fist. I am aware of people around us and commands being yelled. Someone tries to grab me but a surge of uncontrolled magic runs through my body and whoever it was flies through the air away from me. The hog beneath me coughs and tries to breathe through the blood that seeps from his mouth and nose. His face is a bloody mess and I see the skin on my knuckles torn to pieces but I feel no pain. Not the least bit of pain, only pleasure as I hear the bones of his face cracking and his yells dyeing down.

This is not only my revenge upon the mindless guard that has beaten my son to a pulp. For a moment Husher's face turns gray, his nose disappears and two gaping holes replace it, his eyes become shiny, red slits and his lip-less mouth gapes into a horrid grin. My heart races and I lose all the strength of will I have. My mind has lost control over the body a long time ago and I realise that if I'm not stopped I will kill him.

"Incarcerous!" someone yells close by and suddenly I find myself unable to move.


	6. The Strangest of Days

***Very Important AN! PLEASE TAKE SOME TIME TO READ THIS! PRETTY PLEASE! **

_I made a big change in the first chapter, and that led to some small repercussions in this one and the second. It was something I wanted to do ever since I started the story and now I realized that it was a vital element that out of laziness I gave up on when I started this story. _

_You can go and re-read the first two chapters but I know it might be a bit tedious so I'm going to sum it up here as best as I can so that this chapter can make sense. The first chapter (Prologue) doesn't take place when Ron, Hermione and Harry are 19 anymore but when they are 24, just after their graduation from the Auror School and when Lucius is released from prison. Among the other characters that the postman meets then there is another one, a filthy, sorry looking old man that is being guarded by Aurors and held at wand end by them. Who is this stranger? You will find out in this latest chapter. I didn't change the time frame for the second chapter, it still takes place when they are 19, the only difference is that Ron doesn't come back from obliviating the muggle but from retrieving the ownership document of Peverell Manor. That's about it, I really hope it makes sense…_

_I'm very sorry for this and please, please forgive me, I know how unprofessional and annoying it is but I had to do it… _

_On a different note, thank you to all my lovely reviewers and fav-ers and to all my equally wonderful silent readers(I know you're out there lurking in the shadows;))! You don't know how much your opinions and comments mean to me. Thanks and lots of love!_

* * *

"Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?" Mark Whitman

* * *

**The Strangest of Times**

"It is simple, effective, practical and most importantly faultless. Seven locking charms – you'd need the power of ten giants to rip it apart. Nine, " the Auror tapped his wand on the white board smartly and as the sketch shuffled and rearranged itself in numbers and letters he turned to them looking exceedingly professional, "I repeat, nine levels of responding curses. Think about it! It has never been done before, it is a revelation in the procedure and practice of modern magic, a seemingly simple object to respond in such way to just a thought. Hate or rage, prepares the device for its response, the actual violent intention automatically – and I mean automatically, it only takes a fraction of second – triggers the punishment, which is so effective that the subject will be unable to take action again for at least half an hour." The room was filled with gasps and excited murmurs. The auror smiled pleasantly and then turned to one of his assistants whispering something in his ear. The man scuttled away through a back door, re-emerging in moments with a delicately ornate box. He placed it in the auror's waiting hands and moved away, hiding in the darkness. The auror greeted the crowd with a charming smile and lifted the box like an offering, nodding and opening it with a flourish.

"This is it! The long awaited Collar of Holding."

IIII

I have done terrible things. I know I deserved everything I received. This is what I should think, the only thought in my mind must be repentance and I must express it with everything I have, with my words, with my gestures, with my eyes. Do I feel repentant? It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that I haven't lost my will to live. Punishment, such a small word, insignificant, inconsequential, but yet it is the only one that can be used. Three years suppose to be nothing in a man's life. Until I came to Azkaban three years used to pass by like mere moments. Now three years are my life. I am only three years old. Eternity can be measured in a tangible manner only in direct parallel to one's life. Three years are my eternity.

I was afraid of this place once, now I'm afraid of the world outside. I can feel the change that happened there, it courses through the air like an unseen energy. I don't know anything; most of us never know anything in here. I realise now that pride is my greatest fault, the reason I was and still am such a good servant. I should have left it behind, I should have done what others did, then I would have known something factual about my situation. No room for regrets anymore, I don't need this, I don't need my own consciousness admonishing me again. Even if I would have killed my pride then, I would still be a mere servant to them – a servant with an advantage, yes – but still a servant. My actions would never rise to the ideal of my house or family but in such a situation and with such people these ideals, these imbecile dogmas are flimsy and shallow. It is my own personal victory that I held tight to myself, to my identity - proud, stupid and tactless it may be – I never forgot who I was. Because in the end all you have is yourself.

IIII

She was dizzy, lightheaded and confused for no other reason than rage. Rage mixed with disbelief and the worst thing for her was that she couldn't do anything. There was nothing more horrible for Hermione Granger than powerlessness.

She looked around herself with disgust at the ecstatic expressions on everyone's face. The room was filled with ministry's officials, famed aurors and self-important entrepreneurs and they suddenly seemed very ugly with their indecent anticipation – scaly lizards and fat toads drooling at the prospect of owning and using the collar. Her annoyance didn't only make her want to hex everyone in the room starting with the auror that was still bragging on about the "amazing device", but almost pushed her to stand up and tell them all how preposterous they were. It was a bad idea to say such thing, she wasn't a child anymore and she definitely wasn't Ron to lack prudence.

She made a huge effort to calm her jumping nerves, stood up and walked out of the room ignoring Ron's questioning look. Oh how she would love to just go back in there and tell them, with the calmest voice possible, that they were stupid. She paced the corridor up and down a few times thinking things over. Organizing ideas and labelling different facts calmed her in moments like these. She was an auror now, she had a license, she had authority, she could take decisions and influence, if not even sway those that were above her. She didn't want to limit her career to that of an auror, she wanted to work in politics, wanted to do something worthwhile and decisive for the Wizarding World but this latest idea that Kingsley came up with was another pointless aggravation; just another thing to keep her mind off of important things and distract her from what she had in mind. She knew that with _that_ in her house she would never go about her business calmly.

"'Mione, what's wrong? Why did you run like that? Get back in, people are asking questions." She turned around to see Ron's head poking through the door. She heaved a sigh of impatience and pierced the redhead with a cold look.

"Has all the Wizarding World lost its mind? Did Voldemort imperiused Kingsley from beyond the grave or is Kingsley the new Dark Lord?" She asked as quietly as possible but not without venom in her voice.

"Love listen…"

"No Ron, this is too much. Who came up with that ghastly Collar anyway? Who's the inventor?"

"A large team of people from the Mysteries did. The only one I know is Creevey; he has been leading the team of designers and draftsmen. You know Dennis he's always been good at mechanisms." Ron looked apologetically at her and started wringing his hands together leaving the door to the meeting room fall open.

"Good at mechanisms but not at charms…" she mussed. "And that has to be a very complicated charm, not anyone can do such a thing, Ron." He shrugged at her words and looked down.

"I don't know anything else, dear…"

"Yeah well, no one seems to know anything around here lately…" she frowned and realised how menacing she must be looking in the state she was. "And please close the door Ron, this _is_ a private conversation in case you didn't notice."

"I _did _notice Hermione, I'm not an idiot, alright!" he said, his voice growing harsher, a sure sign he was getting annoyed. He turned and closed the door quietly and then approached her a little too cautiously, which only helped to offend her more.

"You don't understand, do you? You think this is alright and you agree with them?" They were very close to each other and she whispered up to him looking him straight in the eye, trying to convey what she felt through all means.

"Look Hermione, I never said I agree but it is a very good solution."

"You don't have a problem living with a Death Eater under the same roof? You just think that you'll wake up every morning and put your feet up while one of Voldemort's followers serves you toast and maybe even invite him at five to have tea with you. All this sounds perfect to you, doesn't it?" she finished her rant with a mock, lopsided laugh that only made Ron roll his eyes.

"_The Collar of Holding is there for a reason. They won't do anything; they will obey us in everything!" _he hissed.

"How can you be sure of that? What if it doesn't work that well? What if it malfunctions?"

"Muggle stuff malfunction Hermione, not magic!" his voice was starting to rise and she sensed they were very close to one of their yelling matches.

"I won't get into that because I know you are wrong…Either way," she waved her hand dismissively at the subject, "how do you know it works? You haven't even seen the thing before. How can you trust…" She stoped and looked at him frowning. His emotions were usually very transparent and he could rarely hide something from her and right now his eyes were squinting suspiciously. "Ron, what am I missing?"

"Well, this isn't the first I see it."

"Oh! You saw it…working, did you?" she asked half admonishing and half urging him for details.

"Well, yeah, I did."

"When?"

"I went with Williamson to the Department of Mysteries after the Auror graduation party and he made a demonstration."

"You never told me…"

"I'm sorry, it was secret, and we made a vow not to talk about it until it was officially released."

"Not even to your future wife? And why wasn't I invited? "

"It was a very private thing, it was only me, Harry, Williamson and Kingsley." He answered apologetically.

"And you liked it, did you? You thought it was a great idea. I mean you went on with your life for almost a month after seeing such a thing without even a hint that something was wrong?" Her temper was rising again and try as she might, this time she couldn't smother it.

"Nothing _was_ wrong Hermione!" he exclaimed throwing his hands in the air.

"NOTHING WAS WRONG? HOW CAN YOU EVEN…" she took a deep breath and levelled her voice. "Not only that having one of those people in our home is not safe and completely stupid but the way that Collar works is ghastly and inhumane. Frankly, I think Voldemort would have been green with envy to see us using such a device." She tapped her foot and Ron started rubbing his face distressed. The door behind him opened and Hermione saw over his shoulder Harry's mop of dark hair poking through. He smiled, closed the door with a soft click and made his way to them.

"Hermione…Oh dear, I knew you would misunderstand this." He came by Ron's side and looked sheepishly at her.

"I have nothing to say to you, Harry!" she said with finality turning around and walking briskly to put as much space between her and them as possible.

IIII

It is evening. The twilight is casting its orange glow through the carriage window and over my soiled trousers. For a moment they look almost acceptable in that soft light, until I realise that the holes and dubious spots are even more obvious creating brutish, detailed patterns. I look like the lowest of paupers. I belong to the slums of London, begging and sleeping on the pavement. I'm not even fit for pick pocketing. If I'd have at least a little of my old pride left I would bask in some ego inflating saying like "_Lo' and behold how the mighty have fallen!", _regrettably the constant worry that I have lived under the past three years has rendered me paranoid and exceedingly suspicious, so much that I am inclined to doubt my once so-called greatness. I have always been aware that many of my _associates _and _business partners_ gossiped and talked behind my back a lot but that was and still is unimportant; now it is a feeling of caginess and circumspection that haunts me. It is what I hated most in others, it is the most evident proof of weakness and the more I ponder on it the more it deepens and longer are the roots it grows in my personality. It is my utmost priority to get rid of this blatant proof that I lack confidence. I shudder at the thought; confidence has been the stuff that built my empire.

I have arrived. So immersed I have been in my thoughts that I haven't even noticed the one hour of flying over the sea passing. The tiny waves glisten merrily in the fading sun and the few gentle turns that the carriage takes allow me glimpses of muggle London, I can see rooftops of all shapes and sizes, the top of Big Ben and panoplies of crenels and towers, the hideous glass buildings rearing their ugly, glimmering heads over everything. Nothing has changed, though everything seems strange and alien.

I have no idea where will be my next stop, I suspect it will be the Ministry; they need to have an official document that I'm back from the dead and apt to be exploited. There is only one thing that makes me want to face them all, my family, even if I fear thinking of them, of Cissy especially. I have seen Draco many times but I haven't heard anything of or from my wife since the day they have taken us to Azkaban, five years ago. I don't even want to conceive what has happened; I'd rather fool myself for the moment. A little self-deceiving can only be healthy, it keeps me sane.

The carriage lands in a back alley. I get out and so does my escort, a fledgling auror. Gone are the days when I was watched by a pair of idiotic animals, now that I'm free I need to be taken care of by a green, cape wearing auror that, judging by his strut, blatantly overestimates himself. I don't know whether to be flattered that they sent someone that can read to escort me or rather worried that my actual state of helplessness didn't ask for anything more than an unseasoned school boy.

The air is thick and suffocating, I don't know whether it is because I'm not used to temperatures over 10 degrees C anymore or rather a miracle happened and Britain is experiencing a worthwhile summer. The narrow alleyway opens to a small, deserted, but neat and nicely looking square surrounded by brick buildings. It is odd to see this orderly and clean place with green grass and tall trees. Every sight and smell hits me, amazes me, wakes me, it's like I've never seen trees with lush, green leaves or thick clouds travelling at impressive speed along the dome of the sky.

The auror holds me at wand end and directs me to the nearby and strikingly familiar phone booth confirming my earlier suspicion regarding my destination. We cram together in the tiny space and still keeping up his act, the boy folds his arm awkwardly at his chest with the wand held in a death grip and pointing at his nose rather than me. He then widens his eyes in realisation - the actual muggle contraption that allows us in is behind me. He glares at me as if I planned this. I shuffle around ineptly to allow him access to the machine and frown at him, he shrinks down and his wand almost travels up one of his nostrils. Finally he manages to make the call and we start descending. I realize now that I know the boy – from where, I have no idea. I'll remember eventually.

There is a sense of dread coming here as I haven't visited this place since the embarrassing incident six years ago that brought about my impending downfall. I hear a strange ruckus as we approach the "bowels" of the Ministry. The door opens and I'm presented with its source. A blinding flash of light welcomes me and a roar of voices assaults me. Reporters, a horde of them, surround me from all sides; meek, petty little creatures with no other goal in life than creating chaos and obsessive suspicion in susceptible minds. Small-minded worries only lead to stupidity, so their only contribution is that made to the growing number of idiots.

"Mr. Malfoy do you feel redeemed of your terrible sins after those years in Azkaban?" stupidly asks a gangly young man in my left. My auror can't hold his own against the excited herd and as he tries to call for others to help him he is overwhelmed by the reporters and I see him bullied behind a mass of shoulders and heads. The hysterical mob jumps me with sharp quills and teeth. The first and closest to me is unsurprisingly that obnoxious Skeeter woman. Her face looks like a freshly whitewashed wall and she has thick green lines on her eyelids that match the rheum in the corner of her eyes. I think she could use some of Azkaban's superb hose-wash treatment.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she screeches. "Such a surprise to see you out and about!" her clownish lips stretch into some sort of smile. "I would like to say that you haven't aged a bit but that would make me a liar." A leer and a suggestive movement that invades my personal space. "I bet you haven't seen yourself in a very looong time!" Her shoulders shake in her amusement at her own joke. "Or your son and wife." She adds with a forced pout of pity. The others start to ask questions louder than before roused by her insinuations. I'd smash her head now. "Speaking of which, how will they cope with the scars left by the situations you forced them into? How will they cope with their suffering for a father and a husband that turned their family from great and prominent to an exiled pariah?" She should receive an award for the most oxymoronic oxymoron.

"Get away from me you harlot!" I hiss quietly in her ear and push myself through the wall of bodies.

I am assaulted by questions, the reporters yell and run after me, and I can't make out much except for Skeeter's last words. Where is that boy when I need him?

"All you have is words now Mr. Malfoy! You won't even have yourself soon." And she laughs meaningfully. I don't know what she is trying to say but knowing her it is something significant. She is happy about something and I'm sure it is something that I won't like. Death Eaters and reporters are very much alike; they bask in other people's ill fortune, I'm not judging though, it is a matter of survival.

I finally find my sandy-haired auror; he comes to me followed by others he must have picked up for his fight against the journalists. They all surround me and we go to the _throne room_ or in other words to the Wizengamot Courtroom.

The trial is long and tedious, a repeat of the same old accusations I have heard every time they called me, but the result can only be summed up in one word – lurid. It's amazing, really, I'm starting to think it is a nightmare or perhaps I died and this is hell. Unfortunately everything is disappointingly real. I think I preferred Azkaban.

IIII

She looked at him twisting her hands nervously. Her feelings and thoughts were all an incoherent jumble. She still had hopes that this will somehow be resolved, that she will find a way to undo this. For the moment she had to get used to the situation and most of all to the man in front of her. To a man that was going to share their house from now on and for an indefinite period of time. She had to adapt to a man that tried to kill them numerous times. She had to adapt to the shuddering fact that Lucius Malfoy will be living with them at the Peverell Mansion.

She tried to subdue her anger and looked up at the man in front of her, the _stranger _in front of her. She couldn't even recognize him, he looked like a beggar and the feeling of uneasiness could only be magnified by this fact. He was older, centuries older, his hair seemed even whiter than before and his face held a wild, haunted expression. But yet the filthy prison uniform and the long tangled beard that concealed most of his face couldn't hide him, the real him. She thinned her lips and frowned at him starring back determinedly just like she always did every time they met. Nothing had changed in neither of them, she was still as determined and unshaken in her beliefs and ideals and he just as stubborn and convinced of his. She could still look at him without a trace of fear etched on her face and he could still confront and deride her with a mere stare.

His answer was a short bow of his head and a tiny move of his moustache that signalled a small mocking smile. What was left of his old supercilious self combined with the new embittered and haunted air only made him more terrifying. But she swore that whatever she felt, whatever feeling of fear or uncertainty he might give her, will be well hidden behind a perfectly orchestrated attitude. She had to learn to live with this; she had to learn to live with him. She knew she was capable of anything she put her mind too and Lucius Malfoy was not going to be the man to stop her from living her life the way she had planned. He or anyone else could not stand in her way. She was going to manage, she had been through worse after all, she had seen death more times than she could count, she resisted Bellatrix' torture and never gave in, never told her about the sword despite the pain and horror that, even now, still haunted her in her sleep. She was an auror, in the last three years she learned things that could definitely match whatever training he had. She remembered the lessons in her Auror training, clinging to the knowledge she received to convince herself that this was a mere trifle, he was nothing.

Williamson and Smith came behind Malfoy, Williamson was carrying the famed collar and Smith was pointing his wand at him a little shakily. She shook her head; she still couldn't understand how a coward like Zacharias Smith entered Auror training and got his auror badge. She suspected his father had something to do with this.

"Restrain him Smith!" boomed the baritone voice of Williamson.

"Yes, I knew that's what I was supposed to do sir…I was just waiting for your command" grumbled Zacharias glaring at his superior.

"Work now, chat later." Retorted Williamson.

Smith sighed and finally casted Incarcerous on Malfoy. His body became stiff, his head the only part he could move and he did move it, he couldn't miss the chance to throw an amused stare at Smith that was standing to his left.

"Ah, young mister Smith!" he spoke for the first time in a slightly raspy voice. She shuddered when hearing him again after so long, memories of the Department of Mysteries and the Malfoy Manor all coming back to her. "I thought I knew you from somewhere…" he said in a falsely thoughtful tone while Smith looked away and started fidgeting with his wand. "I trust you father is alive and well?" he continued and kept staring at the young man that seemed to have shrunk under his gaze. She frowned in confusion wondering under what circumstances Malfoy met Mr. Smith.

"Control yourself Malfoy!" said Williamson in a threatening voice at which Malfoy turned away calmly from Smith.

"I meant no harm, I only wanted to ask Zacharias to send my best regards to his father." He said lightly.

Williamson who was now in the process of pushing Malfoy's hair and beard out of the way to make room for the collar stilled and looked at Smith pointedly, Zacharias palled.

"Well, Smith aren't you going to answer such a polite request?" asked Williamson obviously digging for information. Hermione smiled and listened attentively.

"I- I don't know what he's talking about." He stuttered making his statement sound hilariously implausible.

"Of course you don't…" said Williamson frowning as he won the war with Malfoy's hair and proceeded to fasten the collar around his neck. She thought she could see a ghost of a smile under the tangled moustache and beard on Malfoy's face. She always suspected the Smiths of having some ties to the Dark Lord in the past and now she was certain that it was true. She made a mental note to research the problem.

Williamson finished tying the collar around the man's neck and now he looked proudly at his own handy work. She glared at the both of the aurors not even bothering to look at Malfoy, only the idea of his presence in her house making her sick to her stomach.

"And I should trust that piece of leather he has around his neck, right?" she asked unable to control her attitude anymore. At that moment the aurors and their obliviousness to the situation was annoying her more than Malfoy's presence.

"Yes, actually" answered Williamson looking at her with a raise of his brow as if she lost her mind. "It's infallible and this one is the best that has been made. Also the collars will be changed regularly every time a new and more advanced model is launched." He said.

"Why would I want this…this beast in my house Williamson? WHY?" her head was starting to ache and her temper was increasingly out of control as she looked at the bewildered faces of the aurors.

"This is the best solution Hermione! They have been re-educated. Not only that the collar will stop him from doing anything destructive or wrong but the program he went through while in Azkaban has been conceived to break them, to bend their perception and thus making them easier to be reintegrated into the new society." Williamson tried to convince her. She looked from Malfoy to the still pale Smith that was standing a few steps behind him. She returned her eyes on Malfoy letting her stare linger on his. His eyes narrowed in a very calculated manner, considering her, analysing her. She could see the same intention in that loathsome stare, his inexorable search for weakness in all around him. His critical eyes seemed to delve deep into her brain, judging, evaluating, cutting her into fine pieces and then storing her into the well labelled drawers of his bigoted, narrow mind.

"I see no difference. He is still the same vicious criminal! Prove it to me Williamson, prove that he is harmless!" She hissed at the auror approaching him. She didn't want to come close to him because that meant being closer to Malfoy so she stopped at a distance she considered safe.

"We need Ron so that we can perform the tying, the collar doesn't work until we perform that ritual. Both his owners must be part of it." He said.

"Owners!" she snorted.

"Yes, well technically you will own him." He said and waved a hand towards a seething Malfoy. For a moment she felt like she was about to burst out laughing but then a vicious thought crossed her mind. She turned back to the still Incarcerated man before her and smiled as derisively as she could, trying to give him a taste of his own medicine.

"Wow Mister Malfoy, you are our new house elf! What should we call you, hm?" She stared at him thoughtfully. "Grumpy, Sneery, Blondie or…oh yes Dobby fits and I'm sure it's your favourite too, isn't it?" He frowned at her but she didn't budge, watching him serenely.

"Such childish baiting is not even worth an answer, Miss Granger." he answered through gritted teeth but yet calm as ever. She looked at him strangely half-way loosing her smug smile and felt her face burn with shame and annoyance at her own silliness. She knew that her comment hit the spot but yet his composure and sudden neutral expression made her look like fool.

"Hermione, let's give this a chance, I'm sure it will all work great." Said Williamson looking between the two. He was clutching his wand tightly in his hand prepared for any unpredictable incident that might flare between the two.

"He's not even grateful for the undeserved freedom he got! He doesn't even see what kind of burden this is…he is." She kept her eyes on him, not even turning to look at Williamson. The older Auror sighed and before he could say anything Malfoy spoke in a strangely forlorn voice.

"Grateful for slavery, Miss Granger? Hm, I'd like to see you in my place!" If he was someone else she might have felt sorry and might have actually relate to his suffering or even felt compassion, but this was _him_ and despite the fact that she forced herself to feel humane towards him her mind was a huge block of ice devoid of any emotion but the most wretched, that of spite. And the fact that he made her sink into such malicious feeling only made her hate him more.

"You ungrateful old sod! After everything you did!" her voice had risen to a screech. "How dare you? This is not enough for you, not worthy of you?" she said, one of her hands shooting around her to show him the impressive parlour of Peverell mansion. "You don't deserve anything, not even that hell in the middle of the sea! Oh, yes, even Azkaban, that rat hole is to good for you!" He kept looking at her pointedly, a dark menacing cloud settling over his face. She breathed in shakily. That was the moment Smith found appropriate to escalade the argument.

"I can assure you Hermione, that Azkaban is the finest institution of its kind, far from a rat hole!" he said primly. He was hunting a post in the leading of Azkaban and he was blatantly striving to make a good impression to whoever might talk about him in the future. She grimaced and finally tore her eyes away from Malfoy's piercing stare to look at the suddenly upturned face of Smith.

"Oh, shut up, you pitiable fruit!" she retorted, images of a drunk, giggling Zacharias running around half naked through the forest around the Auror Camp trying to hide from her and Harry as they caught him in a not so decent position with another boy, dancing before her eyes. Two pairs of shocked brown eyes turned to her while a third, grey pair, turned to Smith. Williamson had his mouth half opened in a half shocked, half amused expression, Malfoy was looking pleased in a very disturbing kind of way, which only made Smith shrink further while Hermione was surprised at the out of place satisfaction she was feeling. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife.

"What the hell…" a very familiar voice blurted out from the door of the parlour. All the attention turned to the wide eyed Lord of the Manor that was staring at them as if the house was on fire. Truth be told if Ron would have arrived just a little later the tension could have escaladed to a just that. She turned to him and didn't know whether to feel relieved that he had arrived or annoyed at him that it took him so long.

"What did you do all this time?" she asked throwing her arms in the air.

"I don't know what the hell happened, the man fainted after I obliviated him! I don't understand what went wrong; I did it like I always do." He said closing the door with a deeply frustrated look on his face.

"I told you I should do it Ron."

"I will never again tell you when I'm making a mistake. I'll just act like everything is as perfect as you are!" he said accusingly. She looked at him not understanding where all this antagonism had come.

"Ron, I never implied that I'm perfect or reproached anything…" She almost made it a question even though she didn't want to find out what in her attitude made him have such ideas.

"Forget it." He blurted out waving a dismissive hand her way. "What's done is done." The tension crept back like a fog over them.

"Err…Ron, Hermione, we need to close the agreement, make the vow. It's kind of late and I have to write a report on Malfoy's reintegration tonight." said Williamson careful not to make any of them blow a fuse again.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry mate. Let's get to it then. Where are the others?" Asked Ron shrugging his cloak and rolling up his sleeves with determination. He looked around for the head of houses, his brother and the minister that only half an hour ago stood with them on the field, not hiding his relief at not finding them present.

"They all flooed back to their business, we can handle him here by ourselves." Said Williamson professionally, glancing shortly at Malfoy. Ron nodded in understanding and walked to them.

They all gathered around Malfoy who was looking murderous making inhuman efforts to not throttle them all. Smith again received the task of keeping Malfoy at wand end, looking far from pleased with his unexciting position. Williamson spoke some incantations casting various spells that made the infamous Collar of Holding glow from red to green and then settle on a bright, shimmering blue. After the main part of the ritual was over the actual vow was made and Ron was the first to go in front of Malfoy and with a disgusted grimace on his face entwine his hand with his and repeat the words Williamson was uttering. Both their fingers were curled around the other's forearm, the Unbreakable Vow grip, how she remembered it was called.

Hermione felt strange and she didn't even know why. After waking from her rage induced obliviousness she looked at the situation with different eyes. The ritual of tying this man to them, to their family, came to confirm the utterly unreal state of the affair. For weeks as she waited for Malfoy's release she had a sense of fantastic, she consciously cultivated self-denial living under the impression that it was the only way she could learn to adapt to this. A feeling not unlike the disbelief one experiences at the death of a loved one when, despite the awareness of the sad event, a call or visit from the deceased wouldn't come as a surprise. She really didn't like the automatic manner in which the brain functioned at some levels, creating standard thinking systems and forcing its owner into narrow mindedness. The powerful glowing threads around Ron's and Malfoy's entwined arms took her mind away from her ponderings and she looked from one man to another noticing a barely visible flinch shaking the older man's otherwise stiff frame.

Soon it was her turn and Williamson nodded at her to approach. She hesitated a little before touching the pale forearm that was extended to her, the very idea making her skin prickle. Steeling herself and determinedly avoiding to look up at him she extended her own hand and grasped his forearm lightly, her hand feeling like ice against his warm skin. As his long fingers almost encircled her own forearm she realised that his hand was as cold as hers, the sensation making her hairs stand on end. She listened to Williamson's words, repeating them mechanically, not understanding anything she was saying as she was more concerned about the frailty of her arm with his much stronger one coiled around it. She felt awkward and uncomfortable, for a reason or another the contact felt intimate with a person like him. The tender skin on the inside of her forearm was the most sensitive and responsive zone on her body and having his hand there was extremely intrusive. She cringed and waited for Malfoy to repeat his vows. She looked up at him to escape the unnerving image and was relieved to find his eyes averted to a spot on the wall behind her. She concentrated on his face and on the two voices that were deftly saying the same words to distract herself from whatever her mind might unsettle her with next.

Finally Williamson touched their entwined arms with the tip of his wand and the same glowing threads sparkled and slithered around like vines.

"Adstringo Perfecto.*" finished Williamson quietly as if coming to a conclusion.

The light threads flared shortly and then disappeared as if absorbed by their skin. The blinding blue light seemed to have travelled up around his neck as the collar flashed. This time she felt rather than saw the flinch that went through his body, his arm flexing and his fingers digging into her skin instinctively. It was obvious that he was trying to mask his reaction but being so close to him she could see it clearly. She remorsefully tried to reprimand the feeling of satisfaction she felt at witnessing his pain.

As soon as she was allowed she slipped her hand out of his grasp as if burned, the cold air causing goose bumps on the area warmed by the skin to skin contact.

"Finished! Well, what can I say? Good luck, I suppose." Said Williamson. For moment she thought he was going to say something crazy, like "Congratulations", but was glad to hear that he had put an end to the awkward situation in an honest manner.

After the Aurors took their leave the awkwardness could only increase. She tried to act natural, to not be affected by the intruder in their home but it was impossible. Ron sat in one of the baroque armchairs by the fire, looking tired and worn - his only preoccupation being Malfoy, observing Malfoy, glowering at Malfoy. She, on the other hand, felt faint and could only think about a warm tea and an equally warm bed where she could stretch her tired limbs. She looked at her future husband sitting tensely in the armchair and then at the object of his intense stares. Malfoy was standing in the middle of the room glancing in a very calculating manner around himself, in a second, as if sensing her eyes on him, he looked straight at her. She felt the surprise that etched itself on her face and as much as she steeled herself she was unable to engage in a starring match with him so instead she pursed her lips, blinked and announced that she needs a tea. Without even asking Ron if he would have liked one too she turned on her heels and fled from the parlour and down into the kitchens.

She stumbled down the stairs through the darkness - forgetting to light her wand - and pushed herself into the heavy door. She fumbled with teapots, teaspoons and mugs agitatedly and after a lot of fidgeting and pacing along the kitchen waiting for the water to boil she finally brewed herself a cup of tea of the most calming combination of plants she could find. On her way back up, the bottle of fire whiskey sitting inconspicuously on the kitchen counter attracted her attention and she gave in and poured a little into her tea.

The parlour was under an even bigger cloud of tension. Ron was standing next to the armchair he occupied before and Malfoy was with his back to her looking at him. The few sips of tea had strengthened her and given her courage, so she walked determinedly between the two men, decided to get this over with, call it a night and get some well deserved rest.

"What's going on here? What is it Ron?" she asked looking pointedly at the two.

"He insulted me…" hissed Ron not taking his eyes of off Malfoy who looked back at them with his expressionless face.

"What did he say?"

"He said I'm not worthy to live in a place like this…" Ron growled. Malfoy sighed and shook his head.

"He can say whatever he wants, Ron. The truth is that it is us that _live _here." She said not without a hint of smugness.

"You can at least refrain from making comments about my family. If you wouldn't stoop that low I might actually consider you worthy of living in a place like this." Said Malfoy in a vicious tone subduing a rising temper. His eyes were glued to Ron as if he thought possible that the intensity of his stare might kill.

"Stoop low? STOOP LOW?" yelled Ron, the veins on his neck bulging. "You know everything about that, don't you? You've been through the lowest pits of human dirt that exist!" Hermione flinched at the loud sound of Ron's voice.

"Shut up Weasley!" warned Malfoy.

"Don't you tell me to shut up Malfoy! You have no more right over me or the Weasley family, its over! You won't ever, ever in your worthless life have the chance to spout that shite you used too about red hair, hand me down clothes and poverty! Look at this place, look at the clothes we're wearing and look at yourself. You have nothing, NOTHING! What do you say about that?" His face was contorted in a grimace of rage and arrogance that made him unrecognizable, utterly frightening. The horrible words coming out of his mouth and his insensitive bravado were turning him in a completely different person, but she thought that it was an evil that had boiled in him for years, a frustration that waited its release since the first day Malfoy's eyes looked down at him in distaste and mockery.

She hastily placed her mug on the coffee table and took her wand out ready for the impending peak of the raging tempest. Malfoy's eyes were flaring but the rest of his body looked deceivingly relaxed. She watched in fascination as the Collar around his neck started flashing odd colours.

"No matter how much you pay for you damned clothes or food and no matter how much you scrub yourself in your marble tub _that _filth won't ever come off boy!" he said making a swift movement with his arm as if deciding Ron's faith. "And you know _exactly_ what I'm talking about!"

Ron was red and she didn't put the killing curse past him at that moment. She thought that perhaps letting him vent his pent up anger might do him good but the situation was getting seriously out of hand so she touched his shoulder lightly trying to calm him but he shrugged her off with a muttered "Lee' me alone!"

"And you? Still proud of being a Malfoy, are you? Even now after being beaten down so many times you're still proud of what you and your bloody family did, aren't you?" he went on as if it was normal to scream like a lunatic at ten in the evening. She was thankful that there were no neighbours close by to listen to their show.

"Don't go there again, boy! Don't presume anything about my family!" his breathing became ragged and his lips were thinned into slightly lopsided line. The Collar flashed again shortly.

"And am I not right? Aren't you all a family of pathetic, snivelling, slaves? The position you have now fits you perfectly. What else do you know but serve?" asked Ron half laughing. She looked at him shocked. Despite all the resentment she held for Lucius Malfoy insulting his family like that sounded terribly wretched.

"Ron, Ron calm down!" she said as commanding as she could, taking hold of one of his shoulders again. She wrestled himself from her grasp but she didn't gave in, incessantly trying to get his attention away from Malfoy. "Ron for God's sake, stop this! Get a hold of yourself!"

Before she could do anything else she saw movement in the corner of her eye and turning around she saw Malfoy marching towards them with a determined look in his eye and the collar flashing wildly around his neck. She took her wand out swiftly and pointed it at him but surprisingly Ron's hand shot out and pushed her arm back down and away from her target. He smiled strangely and whispered, "No, no, put it away! Watch this!"

She didn't have time to ask any questions because in the next moment a frightening howl hit her ears. The image that met her eyes was more shocking than anything else, Malfoy was in a heap on the floor thrashing and clawing at his neck. He turned on his back and then on his side towards them, his face was contorted in a ghastly silent scream. And then silence. The Collar stopped its wild flashing and Malfoy's body slackened falling limp, looking like a nightmarish rag doll. She gaped and turned to Ron who looked equally shocked but with a hint of amazement to his expression.

"I hope he's not…Is he?" she mumbled, afraid to say the word she was thinking.

"Dead? No he's fine, don't worry. He'll come around in a half an hour or so." He said and she tried to deny that it was excitement she saw in his eyes. "'Mione, don't look so shocked, just last week you were wondering how the thing works. Well, here it is!" he waved his hand pointing to the unconscious body on the floor. "I think I need a snack. And something strong to help me sleep. Merlin knows I'll toss and turn after this crazy row without the help of an Ogden's." He said looking suddenly refreshed at the idea. He walked to the door to the kitchen and wrapped his fingers around the door knob.

"Ron don't go!" she said in a commanding tone, afraid to be left alone with him. He stopped and looked back at her in confusion.

"Half an hour at least, love, don't worry, he's harmless, just look at him."he smiled reasuringly. "I'll be right back." He spoke casually and disappeared through the door, the sound of it closing thundering in the perfect silence of the night.

She was left standing there with the pitiable relic of one of the most unassailable people she met – afraid to approach him, not because he imposed any threat, not because the antipathy she felt towards him infused her with that much loath but because. despite everything, he didn't deserve her pity.

* * *

_I'm not very sure how you will take this. It is a rather odd turn and I am nervous about how it will be received. This is where the real plot starts, I will tell you again to not make any assumptions and wait patiently for the next odd and perhaps equally shocking piece of the puzzle to come. You will understand everything in the end. I hope you like it and even if you don't, tell me, I love hearing your thoughts on my work! Thank you for reading this._

_*Adstringo Perfecto - Bond Done (along those lines, I used an ordinary on line english latin translator so if it's wrong let me know)_


	7. The First Night of our Discontent

_Welcome my dear friends to another chapter! _

_Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, anonymous or not, they were inspiring and highly motivational!_

* * *

"Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others." Oscar Wilde

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**The First Night of Our Discontent**

The silence was perfect and so was the darkness. Night at the Peverell manor was absolute when there was no moon to break its dominion. Her eyes were wide opened and if there had been the thinnest string of light she should have seen the high ceiling but no matter how long she waited for her eyes to adjust ,the darkness was unmoved and almost tangible. This perfect stillness used to lull her into a deep, restful slumber once, but now she realised that she had no idea how long had she been laying there trying to silence her mind and fall into the arms of Morpheus. Every move, every deep breath seemed to energise her and stimulate her mind with renewed force.

After Ron had his drink he levitated the still unconscious Malfoy to the room they prepared for him on the first floor and then they went to sleep. Despite the efforts Ron made to convince her that he was alright she was still worried because she knew that he wasn't young and what happened to him there looked extremely intense and painful. She really didn't want her hands stained with blood, innocent or not.

The idea taking form in her mind was insane but it wouldn't leave her alone. She feared that he might die and no matter how deep her hate was and no matter how hard she suppressed her natural compassion her overactive mind had the best of her, forcing her to act according to her morals. She wanted to make sure he was still alive but in truth, the real, shuddering reason was curiosity. She was aware of how wrong and absurd this inquisitiveness was but it wouldn't leave her. It was like having a strange and fantastic creature that despite its dangerous nature she wanted to see and study. That bedroom on the first floor did not hold a man but a chimera, an impossible but yet oddly interesting creature.

She listened to Ron's steady breathing and once more tried fighting her traitorous mind.

She had an odd habit. Every time she couldn't make a decision, every time she was torn between her numerous ideas she would wait for a sign, a sound, a word from someone or even a gust of wind. It was such a silly thing, completely against her rational mindset but that very calculating manner in which she lived her life drove her to indecision at times. The more she analyzed option and consequence the more difficult it became to make a decision. The irony was that her overbearing intellect was what made her dither so.

She held her breath waiting for a sign; she decided that the first creak the old house would make will be her trigger. She felt silly doing this but at the same time consoled by the fact that no one would know. It didn't matter what her mind would concoct as long as no one knew.

The house seemed to be her only accomplice, the only one that approved of her insanity as the faintest of creaks in the old woodwork confirmed. Barely there and hardly distinguishable Hermione sighed in nervous relief at hearing the sound.

It wasn't difficult to slip out of the room unheard, Ron was a very heavy sleeper and despite her heart hammering unreasonably in her chest she smiled thankfully as she closed the door letting herself be engulfed by the darkness of the hallway.

XxxX

The first thing is light; the first and most striking impact on his perception is its bluish hue. He has been aware of his own breathing and consciousness for a while, wondering if to feel relieved or disappointed by this proof that he is still alive.

The next is a voice saying something hard to distinguish. A movement, a shuffle, the soft clinking of glass - bottles perhaps - the light flickering and then the flittering of touches on his shoulder. The voice still speaks but in such a small whisper that it makes him wonder whether whoever it is really wants to wake him. He suspects it's his wife, he is painfully unaware of the reality of his last few years. His mind returns to distant times, the years before prison when his reality was something he could identify with, even if it wasn't safe or comfortable it was his reality, his life – it was him – in that distant life that is now gone for him, his wife was the only one allowed to care for him when he was injured or sick. Sometimes when the circumstances asked for it Severus would have done it but now, despite his agony and confusion, he can clearly distinguish a soft, pleasant feminine voice whispering to herself or maybe chanting. Definitely not Severus. It can only be his wife.

Something happened, something bad must have happened that brought him in this situation. He tries to remember but his thoughts and consciousness are flickering and are confusing him. The voice is now gone and he fears it was only an illusion, or maybe he is dead and this new state of existence is something that he needs to adjust too. Death frightens him only when he is faced with the possibility of non existence or obliviousness.

He is a sceptic. He always questions theories and thoughts and he can't embrace any belief completely. He knows only one thing, the possibility that after death might be nothing and that he might be reduced to _nothing_ terrifies him. There is nothing more frightening than the likelihood that him, his own self, his identity and personality with everything that he struggled and worked a whole life to achieve will be severed, erased, sent into nonexistence. Whoever is up there, whoever made him can't be that cruel as to destroy his own creations.

When he was a boy he used to draw and if the drawing was subpar by his childish standards he used to tear it into small pieces and throw it away. Divinity is considered to be a pure, inviolable and objective force. Wouldn't it be natural for such an unbreakable being to destroy its rejects? By the standards of all religious beliefs he is a reject, he is unredeemable. Will he be ripped into small pieces and tossed into the bin?

No, he can't be dead, he just physically felt his wife touching him. His material body responded to a very much material stimuli. Can there be some sort of spiritual memory that by habit tends to simulate physical reactions? Or maybe his disembodied mind tries to reproduce physical reactions that he can relate to in order to cope with the unfamiliar state he is in? That's wild thinking and he needs to stop or who knows what absurdities he will come up with next.

There is that sound again – glass, bottles or cups being moved around and clinked together. Someone walks around quickly; he can hear footsteps and the floor creaking. Liquid is being poured into a container and then something is placed noisily on a wooden surface. Someone inhales deeply and moves around again. He urges his eyes to open further but every time he tries the bluish light blinds him and sends a sharp pain across his forehead. The glow seems to be coming from his right and it is unbearably close.

A few things happen in rapid succession. The soft voice whispers "Aguamenti", water is being poured again, a short yelp is followed by the distinctive sound of glass smashing and finally the soft voice concludes: "Shit!"

He is now certain of two things, he is not dead and whoever tries to heal him is most certainly not his wife.

"Oh, for god's sake, calm down!" mutters the voice.

The light becomes dimmer as the footsteps walk away from him. A door is opened and then closed. He listens to the sound of footsteps until they disappear and he is sunk back into the void of absolute silence and darkness.

Maybe some stranger found him unconscious somewhere and they sent him to St. Mungo's where this incompetent bint was appointed to nurse him back to health. Too much bureaucracy, control and power placed in the wrong hands. No one does anything right in this country…

A nightjar starts its repetitive call somewhere in the distance. The mechanical churring of the bird is loud in the absolute stillness of the night but yet its monotony is calming.

He starts to be aware of the emptiness and draughtiness of the room and in the same time of his very physical existence in the space surrounding him. The irritating light is gone and he can now open his eyes. Opening them doesn't change the situation, the place is pitch black. He searches around with his eyes for the smallest ray of light but no shapes or shadows are distinguishable. Even in his state his mind returns to the earlier annoyances regarding the health system. They could have at least provided the wards with candles.

He needs to move, he needs to drink something, he needs to do anything to prove himself that he isn't a corpse. He gropes around himself and finds the edge of the bed. His fingers clench the covers and he sits up slowly, afraid that any sudden movement might cause him an aneurism. There is a strange feeling of timelessness and confusion. He can't place his own existence into time and space and the more he tries to remember the angrier his head ache becomes. There is a feeling of disaster, of doom in the back of his mind. It's as if he has an intrinsic knowledge of something loathsome that has happened without being able to identify it.

Finally managing to put his feet on the floor and sit on the bed properly he looks into the darkness and tries to get a grip on his consciousness. All he needs to do now is sit up and find the bathroom, a door, a window or even a bottle of arsenic. A deep breath and a motivational thought later he stands up wobbling slightly. His dizziness is incredible; if he were twenty years younger he might have enjoyed the sensation.

The woman placed something on what seemed to be a bedside table that was near him. He fumbles around and finds the hard wooden edge of the object he was looking for. He grabs onto it and tries to walk only to step into what feels like wet eggshells. A sharp pain in his foot makes him loose his balance, he tries to make another step but he slips on the strange slime covering the floor and he falls carrying the bedside table down with him. The damned thing makes an infernal crashing noise and whatever was in it sounds as if it has been broken into a million pieces.

The stupid bint smashed those phials or bottles or whatever the hell they were and forgot to clean the mess. Something warm and wet trickles on the sole of his foot; it seems that those glass shards did their job. He groans and lies on the floor thinking of a way to get back up and miss stepping into glass again.

He hears light footsteps coming from outside of the chamber. The bint finally managed to find her way back to her patient. Maybe this time she will do her job properly. That odd feeling of knowing something he can't place returns - he seems to associate it with this woman.

The door creaks and the bluish light blinds him again. The woman seems to hesitate in the doorway for a while before she silently steps in, closing the door behind her. A short gasp announces that she saw him sprawled on the floor. She runs towards him, the light that he can now see coming from the tip of her wand dancing before his eyes.

"Oh, great! How did you do that, may I ask?" she speaks and her voice finally answers all his earlier questions, his awareness striking him like lightning. Like waking up from a strange dream, reality oddly enough doesn't surprise him. There was that thought in the back of his mind that something terrible happened, now he understands where it came from. He reaches for his neck and with a gasp of horror touches the collar.

"Don't worry, I'm not as cruel as you might be in this situation, I will help you." She says condescendingly. "Such a mess you made here…Reparo!" she whispers pointing her luminous wand to the crumpled bedside table. The object obediently reassembles itself and she places a small stub of a candle on it. She neatly arranges a small leather case and a set of phials and small bottles next to the candle. After a bit of fumbling with the objects she nods in satisfaction and turns to look down at him. Her hair is wild and the light from her wand casts grotesque shadows on her face making her look like Medusa. He sneers and turns his face away from her, hating his feeble state.

He can now see the edge of his bed just to his right; he grabs it and tries to get himself off the floor only to be struck by dizziness again. He masks his helplessness by carefully sitting back down, still looking away from her. Despite everything he tries to keep his chin up and look as dignified as he can, considering he is sitting like a cripple at the mudblood's feet. Oh how he would throttle her right now…

"Scorgio." She whispers and all the glass and spilled potion surrounding him disappear. "There, it's gone, no need to worry. Now, if you can't get up just say so and I'll help. Believe me, this is no pleasure for me either but I won't let you lie here on the floor."

"Such virtue, Miss Granger…You've made an enemy of your own dutifulness…" he hears himself whisper.

"I know it is difficult for you to admit that you are a wreck but still you could at least cooperate, all things considering…" She says in a surprisingly amused tone. The girl has some nerve and unfortunately she has the luxury to have all the nerve and daring she wants. He is the loser here, after all.

"Maybe I don't want to satisfy your silly heroic whims." He says, still looking away and concentrating on the intricate embroidery of the bed spread.

"It's just a spell, it's not like I'm going to touch you…" she says with disgust in her voice.

"I can get up, don't fret…" he reaches for the bed again and sinks his fingers into the mattress trying to fight his vertigo and get himself off the floor. She stands watching him silently as he finally manages to crawl his way along the edge of the mattress and kneel in front of the bed and at her feet. He hates himself; he hates how he's become. "STOP LOOKING AT ME FOR GOD'S SAKE!" he says louder than he intended.

"No need to raise your voice Mr Malfoy! I'm right here and my hearing is quite good I assure you." She says quietly. He is surprised to find such self control in this girl that used to wear her heart on her sleeve like any respectable Griffindor.

He grates his teeth and heaves getting up slowly, still uncertain of his balance. He straightens his back and looks down at the girl in front of him. She mimics his posture instinctively. She is so small, barely reaching his chin with the top of her head. How can this silly, insignificant mudblood have absolute power over him? Where has the world gone to?

She smiles smugly as if she can read his mind.

"There…see, that wasn't very hard." Her face might appear blank in other circumstances but now, in the glaring light of her wand, he can obviously detect apprehension and fear in her features. This makes him smile and he keeps staring at her wanting nothing else but to accentuate her uneasiness. After only seconds she looks away and this small triumph over her will makes him feel slightly better about himself. Not so strong after all, are you stupid mudblood?

"I think you should sit down." Her voice is hard and commanding. She raises her wand slightly looking back into his eyes. He laughs mirthlessly ignoring the scraping pain that attacks his throat at this small action.

"And why would I do that?" he asks her as quietly as possible. She purses her lips and inclines her head, dark eyes glimmering underneath dark eyebrows.

"Because I say so."

"That's hardly a reason Ms Granger." She takes a few steps away from him until she hits the bedside table. Her wand is now raised and pointed at his face, the light blinding him completely. He can't see her anymore, only an indistinguishable silhouette with wild hair and small shoulders.

"I don't need to justify myself to you. Stop wasting my time!" her voice is low and harsh and she remains unmoved. He smiles mockingly at her knowing that she can see him perfectly.

"Do you think I care for your wasted time?"

"You might care for your wasted time though, seeing that you are now standing in a pool of your own blood and that glass must be pretty well embedded into your foot." She moves to the left trapping him between the bed and side table. He lifts his foot and winces at the sharp pain that shoots through his flesh. He can actually feel the pieces of glass moving under his skin.

"What a good Samaritan…" he whispers. She glares at him and lifts her wand up again.

"Always and sometimes with the wrong people…"she replies pensively. "Please lie down or I might have to turn to other more persuasive methods."

"Threatening me now are you? How the tides have changed."

"Yes they have and you'll just have to get used to it. Now sit!" her temper is rising and he enjoys it immensely. She points her wand at his throat thinning her lips in expectancy.

A wave of sickening heat and dizziness suddenly hit him and he sways on his feet. He is dehydrated, hungry and exhausted; he can't keep this charade longer. He releases a breath and closes his eyes for a moment. He needs to drink something, the thirst is unbearable. Almost two days have passed since he had his last glass of water.

He finally gives in and sits slowly on the edge of the bed without another word or look towards the mudblood. He rests his forehead in his palms and tries to control his breathing.

"Good…" she whispers dejectedly. She is fumbling again with those bottles and the clatter starts to get on his nerves. "Take this." He lifts his head from his palms and looks up at her. She is standing above him with a small potion flask in her hand and an annoyed expression on her face. She moves the flask towards him, urging him to take it.

"What is it?"

"I'm not going to poison you, it's just an invigorating potion."

"I want some water first." He can barely hear his own words and it's a surprise she understands him.

"I'll give you water afterwards, now take this." She says impatiently pushing the flask in his hand.

He takes it and downs the loathsome concoction as quickly as possible. She plucks the potion flask smartly from his hand and replaces it with a glass that she magically fills with water. The mere sound of it sloshing in the glass infuses him with an unknown energy. He never realized how much he took for granted the existence of water. He downs it feverishly and greedily not even caring that he spills half of it all over him, in his beard and on his filthy prison shirt.

"Why do you like making things so difficult?" she speaks quietly as he takes the glass away from his lips and extends it to her. "More?" she asks arrogantly.

"Yes." He hisses at her. She laughs a small mocking laugh and refills his glass. He grabs it from her hand and downs it as swiftly as the first. He feels stronger now; he could easily tackle her, take her wand, kill her and the Weasley idiot and escape but there is the matter of the collar around his neck and the fact that he has no idea where he could run to.

She steps away from him and her grip on her wand tightens. He looks up into her face and he is met with narrowed, suspicious eyes. What is the matter with her? Why does she keep looking at him like that?

"What?" he asks harshly. She still stares at him, not saying anything for a long while. The nightjar begins its monologue again somewhere in the distance.

She shakes her head and lowers her wand.

"Nothing…" she whispers. "Let's get this over with, lie down so I can get that glass out of your foot." She approaches him with determination in her eyes. He wants to object, argue with her but he gives up, knowing that there is no use, knowing that arguing will only make her stay longer. He wants to be alone, he wants her out.

He pulls himself up and reclines on the headboard. His eyes follow her every movement. She is quiet as she walks to the foot of the bed. She gathers her nightshift around her body and sighs. She gives him one last strange look before she starts whispering an incantation and moves her wand intricately around his feet. He is almost thankful that she is using magic; he couldn't have went through with the awkwardness and embarrassment of having a stranger touch him so intimately, so closely.

The sharp, nagging pain that her magic is causing him doesn't even startle him. His eyes stay closed and his teeth clench at the stings of every shard of glass wrenched from his flesh. The nightjar accompanies the dull torment.

"Done." Her voice makes him open his eyes. She stands there looking at him for a moment. She walks to the nightstand guided by her livid orb of light. "You have here some more potions that I trust you will be able to take by yourself" He still looks blankly at the spot she occupied earlier. "A strengthening potion and an invigorating potion…You will eat tomorrow, I don't allow anyone, under any circumstance to eat anywhere else but down in the kitchens. There are some rules that you will have to learn and obey…I'm sure that rules aren't a problem for you." She chuckles.

"Just like cheap sarcasm isn't a problem for you." He says.

"I'm sure that _rich _sarcasm isn't directly proportional with wealth judging by your crude mockery." She speaks quietly and distantly as if mussing to herself.

"You amuse me Ms Granger, please go on." He finally looks up at her and is met with her straight, inexpressive face. The corner of her mouth twitches in a small smile.

"Amuse yourself Mr Malfoy, I'm sure you've become an expert in that by now…" she turns away from him and back to her task.

"Do you really believe everything you hear? Do you honestly think your dull prattling is attention-grabbing? Azkaban guards are more entertaining in their _wit_ than you."

"I'm sure their conversations are scintillating for that that spent their lives among brutes and became apt in deciphering grunt language." It's amusing how she doesn't realize she slipped a compliment in her insult.

"I'm sure you are just as familiar with it, considering your entourage."

"You can't even control yourself when someone is helping you can you?…I must say, I'm not surprised." There is a glint of wickedness in her stare as she looks at him from the corner of her eye.

"I never asked for your help."

"But yet _I am_ helping you." She turns to him clutching the small leather case in her fingers.

"Why?"

"Because I have a consciousness!"

"A consciousness…" he chuckles "you are just afraid of what the tabloids might say if I died the first night spent in your house."

"Not everyone is like you."

"Ah so you enjoy tending to me?" he laughs. Her face has lost all control, she looks stricken and angry.

"I hate tending to you." She whispers angrily.

"Then why do it? Your help is not appreciated, thank you." He turns his head to the darkness of the ceiling.

"Alright, then." She says scornfully. "Bandage that wound yourself, you arrogant bastard!" she grounds out heatedly throwing the leather case at him. She goes for the door in a rage with her hair flying wildly around her.

"Why thank you! I'd hate to have your filthy hands on me!" He yells after her. She stops in her tracks and freezes in the middle of the room. She takes a few deep breaths before turning around swiftly and facing him. Her eyes burn into his skull. Her nightshift is askew and her hair seems to crackle with static energy.

She walks slowly back to him. She blows out the candle and takes it off the nightstand. They are swallowed by the livid light of her wand again.

"I don't think you'll be needing this anymore." She speaks quietly looking down at the candle, her control regained. "Speaking of filth, you reek and you look hideous, I'd appreciate it if you'd make yourself a little more presentable. The bathroom is in that direction," she points smartly with her wand to the right. "I'm sure that your superior intellect is sufficient and you don't need such trivial things like light to bandage a wound, wash yourself or piss." She smiles tightly at him and walks away.

"Charming as ever, mudblood." His words have no evident effect on her; she walks out without looking back and slams the door behind her. She does not forget to turn the key in the lock however.

As the sound of her footsteps die down and he is sunk back into absolute darkness he reaches for the leather case that rests on his chest. He fumbles like a blind man with it looking for a way to open it. He finally unzips it and feels inside of it with his fingers. He finds what feels like scissors, gauze and a small bottle with what he presumes must be some sort of disinfectant.

His fingers slowly return to the scissor and he touches it gingerly, pressing its sharp point into his palm for a moment. The scissor's blade isn't blunt - when opened its tip could easily penetrate flesh. He freezes for moments, thinking, analyzing, cutting into fine pieces, driving himself mad.

No. No. It's too easy. Life is never easy and neither should be death. He is above such melodramatic nonsense.

XxxX

The alleyway is deserted as always. It smells of garbage and cat piss but he is used to the conditions and he accepts them as a given. If he wants something he gets it and if he wants to do something he does. There are limits of course, as long as no one knows, no one gets hurt and as long as no one gets hurt he can do whatever he wants. It's simple and logical to him.

He still smells her on him, her scent is overpowering and his heart brakes at the disgust he feels. His bottom lip is crushed between his teeth and he feels like yelling and ripping his hair out. And he does just that, at least inside. The silent scream bubbles in his chest twisting his soul, taking his breath away.

There is a completely different person inside of him. People see what they want to see, but inside the shell of his body lives a hysterical, raging man. A creature wild with remorse and yearning, wanting to tear open his chest and burst out and destroy him. This man is sad and twisted but he never lets go, never leaves him and one day he will merge with this man, they will be one.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and he smells her again, on his palm and on his fingertips. And he tastes her in his mouth and he needs to be exorcized of her, he needs _him _to be cleansed of her. His feet start to move on their own accord and he runs, not wanting to waste any more time, not wanting to wait longer and burn with desire any more minute.

Images of her on top of him haunt him. She moans and her head falls back wantonly, he feels her from the inside, clenching around him and he shivers with loath and guilt. He feels sorry and sad and wretched and he sometimes wants to die. And she doesn't even suspect, the poor thing.

How did this happen? When did it happen? How did he not see the signs? Where does it come from? Will it consume him? Questions, doubts, muddled and incoherent thoughts that only _his_ body can silence.

He finally reaches the gangway he knows all to well and his heart travels in his throat in anticipation. He lights his wand and walks quickly and silently like a cat. The night is his best friend lately, only she knows him, only she understands him, only she helps him quench his thirst.

The door, the beautiful red door that leads to content finally appears before his eyes! He raps quietly with the back of his fingers on the smooth dyed wood. A lock is being opened, a latch is being pulled and his personal "St. Peter" opens the door.

"Good evening sir! Password please." The old gentleman speaks curtly. He has a finely trimmed beard and intelligent blue eyes.

"Tonight…tonight it's…" he rubs his bottom lip with his thumb in thought and then leans towards the man and whispers in his ear, "Liebe." He pulls away and looks at the man. "That's it, right?"

"Yes sir, you are quite right. Welcome!" the man bows respectfully and gestures with his right hand towards the crimson hallway that opens in front of him. 'Liebe', German for love. Is this insanity love? Does it matter? No.

He shakes his head and walks in leaving his doubts on the threshold and baptizing his thoughts with the hypnotizing fumes of burnt incense that assault his senses. The music is soft and mysterious, demanding somehow. He never heard the song being played here before but he resonates with the notes, they excite him, increase his desires and erase his guilt.

He hears laughter coming from the central room and he follows the sound eagerly. A pair of boys, holding onto each other, passes by him. They nod at him and he smiles back. He feels no desire for them, no one arouses him, and no one interests him since he met _him_.

The hallway opens to the large, opulent room. Chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, draperies fall in waves around the walls and behind soft velvet recliners and ottomans, the forbidden scent of blissful obliviousness saturating the air.

There are many men tonight; indistinguishable figures float around him like in a dream. Some smile invitingly at him, some nod, some say hello. He is distant but polite, the singular goal in his mind making him numb.

The silver bar in the centre glistens in the kaleidoscopic light cast by the magical chandeliers. He needs to drink something to calm his rampaging heart, to unwind and let go but he does not dare approach the bar. He needs to see _him _first; he needs a precise goal.

He scans the crowd and searches the darkest corners of the room with his eyes, searching, yearning. His breath catches as his eyes fall on _him._ He is there, he never fails him, he never disappoints him. He is with his back at him on one of the stools surrounding the bar. He takes in the image, following the line of his body with greedy eyes. His shoulders shake with the laughter that is loud enough to reach his ears. The sound pierces through his heart and coils in his stomach. He reaches a slender hand to his drink, the fingers curl around the steamy glass and his head turns slightly, enough for him to see his glorious profile. He drinks from the glass slowly without taking his eyes away from whoever it is he is speaking to. A pang of jealousy twists his heart and he walks to him, this time determined to smother his timidity.

As if in slow motion he sees his companion stand up and walk away. He spins on his stool and faces the bar and as if on queue his head turns to him and finally their eyes meet. He freezes in his tracks and looks at the man at the bar expectantly. He nods slowly and his crimson lips twist into a meaningful smile. He stands up swiftly, his stool spinning in place. He stands for a moment looking at him impassively and then turns his back and walks behind the bar. This is the sign, he needs to follow him.

His feet have a mind of their own again; he is in a daze, he is hypnotized by the beautiful, elegant shadow he follows. The man's jet black suit conceals him, he becomes part of the deceptive shadows that glide on the walls.

The man's hand pushes one of the crimson draperies that cover the walls revealing another corridor. He follows as if in a dream until he stands face to face with him finally drowning in his eyes. The man's face relaxes into that familiar, secret smile only he knows and puts a hand around his shoulder pulling him behind the curtain. His body is clay in the man's hands and he closes his eyes revelling in the sensation. The man's hot breath snakes on the shell of his ear and down his neck.

"Welcome love."


	8. Curiosity

_"You hate someone whom you really wish to love, but whom you cannot love. Perhaps he himself prevents you. That is a disguised form of love." Sri Chinmoy_

* * *

**Curiosity**

It haunts me, it frightens me. This waiting, this fear, all these uncertainties that hang around me like black, thick draperies.

I have lost all control over my life, over my destiny and I don't know what to do and where to go to regain it.

'Go', well, it's not like I could _physically _go anywhere, I am locked in this immense room and I have a damned _dog collar_ around my neck and I want to kill that mudblood and that brainless weasel of hers. A horrible combination of fear and rage boils inside me as I look around the room I'm in.

It's been a week since I have been welcomed into the grand Weasley/Granger manor. The accommodations are meagre because they have been custom made that way for me. The room is large and gothic, like the rest of the house but unlike the rest of the opulent house it is empty. The floorboard is of the highest quality ebony and the bathroom is truly impressive, white porcelain tiles and baroque bathtub. Despite the grandiosity of the manor my room is equipped only with a wooden bed, a nightstand and a wobbly table with an equally wobbly chair. Admittedly the conditions can't be compared to those I have been blessed with in Azkaban yet I can't help but be amused at the contrast between the furniture I have spotted in the rest of the house and the one in my room. It is obvious that it is not the lack of money that motivated them to furnish my room so poorly; rather, I'm certain that they believe in some delusional concept that someone like me must live in the most Spartan of conditions in order to be purged of exclusivist tendencies, snobbery and "bigotry". How long will I have to pay for my fat bank account and good business sense?

Maybe one day I'll admit to myself that despite my level-headedness with finances, I have lacked pragmatism when choosing my _friends._ Maybe, maybe one day...Realistically thinking I don't see myself acknowledging that my life was a lie; I am and always will be aware that such a thing would spawn guilt and guilt is dangerous, it softens the heart and weakens the will. Now my heart needs to be made of stone and my will must be untouchable, I must be untouchable.

I have an impending sense of doom; instinctually _I know _I won't be able to get out of this mess. This feeling of powerlessness literally suffocates me, every time I think about this I feel my lungs collapsing and my airways closing in on themselves. And I don't even care that much about myself to be honest, I only stay alive because I have to be sure that my wife and son are safe. And this only makes everything more desperate because I'm locked here, I'm tied to those people and I can't _know_ anything.

I need to do something, I need to move, I need to break this cursed peaceful silence that haunts the whole house and my room.

I get up from my bed and go to the bathroom. I turn on the taps, fill my hands with water and splash my face repeatedly, attempting to find a semblance of rationality. After getting myself so wet that small rivers start streaming down under the collar of the ghastly maroon shirt Weasley provided me with, I look into the mirror above the sink.

One week ago, the first morning in this house, found me staring in this same mirror for half an hour, unable to recognize the person looking back at me. I'm old.

I have washed, shaved, combed the tangled, sorry mass that was my hair – pulling out half of it in the process – I've even managed to cut it back to its former length and yet I could not find myself no matter how hard I searched under all that grime. My face is gaunt and weather beaten, my jawbone is protruding and my nose stands out more than ever. There is something about my eyes, they are not mine, no matter what I do I can never wash the look I have in my eyes. Hostile, aggressive, bullying, unrefined animal - that is what my eyes say about me.

I'm looking back into the eyes of this stranger and I don't know what to do to make him be like me again. I pull my hair back with my hands and its worse; it makes me look predatory, wild and tempestuous. There's no use, what's on the outside reflects what's on the inside, my soul is worn and I'm old. I'm fifty, half of century of life went by in a mere moment. My father didn't look like this, didn't feel like this when he was fifty, my father didn't see the things I've seen. His life went by like a pleasant day of May, no rains, no scorching heat, no unexpected weather, mine can only be compared to October, tempting and promising with its soft light only to bring the inevitable darkness of winter. I don't blame him, he didn't push me into anything, he stayed backstage encouraging and sponsoring my social ascension. Much like I did with Draco.

A door is slammed somewhere in the house and in the silence of the countryside the sound is almost deafening. I hear voices coming from the outside. It sounds like the mudblood.

After our charming first encounter the first night she didn't come anymore. She sent her Weasley to tend to my needs. He gave me these tatty clothes I'm wearing now and took me down to the mudblood's _precious_ kitchen to eat twice a day. I only caught a glimpse of her once when I was passing through the parlour to go to lunch. She was sitting in front of the fireplace talking to someone, she didn't even look at me and I was actually pleased of the effect our first 'conversation' had on her. I frightened her and this is a good thing because she needs this metaphorical slap over the face to stop overestimating herself. She is self sufficient and naïve – the worst possible combination. Foolishness can never be the pitch of perfection without arrogance.

"_Go then! Just go! That's all you can do! That's the solution to all your problems!"_

The mudblood's hysterical yell can be heard up to my room. Trouble in paradise…

I walk away from the mirror and go to the window to see exactly what is going on. My window is closed but considering its position I only need to pull the thin gossamer curtain a little to spy on the 'happy' couple outside. The tall windows of my room face the front garden and the main exit of the house, something that I find idiotic. When they were prisoners in my own house I didn't even think of providing them with the room with the best view over the most active areas of my house. Not that I'd prefer a dark musty dungeon over my immense unfurnished room.

"'Mione I can't…I can't do anything about this! I told you a million times. How many times do I have to repeat the same bloody thing?" Weasley's orange hair comes into view. He is flaying his arms around like a madman. The mudblood stands still with her arms crossed.

"You don't have to _tell me_ Ron, you must _do_ something."

"I can't! Alright? I, bloody can't! Adapt for Merlin's sake! ADAPT!"

"I don't want to adapt to something like this. I don't want it and that's it!" Ah, this is about me. Their central and only problem is me.

"You can't always have what you want Hermione. Wake up! This is life!"

"I need to wake up, Ron? ME? You always did what you wanted. Always, since the first day we've met you followed your whims, without even giving a damn about the others or what they wanted. Do I even need to remind you of every single stupid thing you did and how you dragged everyone into your own mess because of your lack of self-control?"

"Oh, not that old trite again Hermione, please! Why can't you just put the past where it belongs?"

"That's not old trite Ron, those are things that we need to talk about, otherwise they always come back and we never forget them."

"YOU! You don't forget them because you are damned incapable to forgive and forget."

"I can't when you never want to talk about them and make me understand."

"I'm sick of talking, alright? And I need a drink. I'll be over at Harry's. Leave me alone!" Weasley turns around in a flare of ginger hair and brakes into a run down the pathway. The mudblood grumbles something I can't understand and enters the house slamming the door dramatically behind her. Griffindor tragedy in one act…absolutely cringe worthy. I must say I'm thankful to them for having this row now. I needed the distraction.

The silence again. This is the most peaceful and silent place on Earth. The house is vast and ancient, not larger but definitely older than mine, the walls are thick and the rooms are immensely tall and wide preventing sounds from the outside. It is not the same story on the inside, noises that are loud enough travel through the rooms rather easily, though this is not regular, there are times when even if the Weasleys are entertaining downstairs my room is as still as a grave. I have yet to understand how these changes work, the only reasonable explanation is that the house is very old and in so much time managed to absorb enough magical energy from its inhabitants to be able to create a pseudo conscience. My manor had the tendency to do the same though I would always take care to do regular ritual cleansings. I'm sure they have no idea about administering a magical, ancient household and this one has been built by an old pureblood family in a time when building a house was more than pilling up some bricks, hammering some nails and casting some paint on the walls. It took years and years for the house to be finished and then, with time, every generation added its own signature to the ancient decorations and spell work. It took seven years to build the Malfoy residence and seven generations to make it look like it does now, if it still stands of course.

Suddenly the disconcerting silence is brutally destroyed by a strange sound coming from somewhere inside the house, it is a piano being played and the song is slow, reflective and familiar though I can't name it. A bright, almost blinding, ray of light falls across the room from the window to the door, forming a shimmering carpet. Its evening and the autumn is coming, I can see it in the way the light falls. My mind flies to the autumns at the manor when at about this time my elves would harvest the grapes in a delightful display of bucolic opulence.

I walk along the fading, warm glimmer that crawls on the floor at my feet, it takes me to the door and I put my ear against the smooth, dark wood, listening, deciphering this sound that though I know so well it is as alien as a day of peace and normality. For a moment I am baffled at the mudblood's virtuosity in playing the piano but then the song takes a much too masterful intensity and it resonates slightly dull for it to be played live, now, by a human hand. I close my eyes and am engulfed by a combination of nostalgia and annoyance. This peasant girl listens to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and in normal circumstances I would be impressed and think highly of her but I can only sneer at her sheer hypocrisy and pointless struggle to rise up to her newly acquired social status.

We, purebloods (or whatever we may be called now), listen (or used too listen) to classical music be it muggle or not, and I, having grown in a house where these songs reverberated along the walls each day, can boast with an extensive knowledge on the fact and with somewhat dubious tastes. My father was obsessed with his discs though his tastes were confined to what was right, what was safe, never would he acknowledge the existence of music composed after the 15th century or the existence of other composers save for the likes of Monteverdi or Corelli.

Even if, indeed, I do appreciate the composers from the middle ages I also commit the sacrilege of acknowledging more modern composers, though never passing the limit that is the year 1900. From my point of view what has been composed in the last hundred years, by muggles and wizards alike, is rubbish and should be banned. But admittedly and truly surprising are the mudblood's tastes in music. I would expect her to play that terrible cacophony called stone or rock or whatever the name is, that is sung by pubescent little boys that think they can be men if they shout and crush and bang like a band of monkeys. Alas, Draco was fond of them…

Thinking of Draco doesn't get me anywhere but into a deep, murky pool of misery and the Moonlight Sonata doesn't help. What has got into the girl's head to play such a song now I don't understand. I push my ear against the wood until my head hurts. Not only does this kind of music remind me of home, of my family, but it digs out the memory of my best friend and the guilt that I could, somehow, anyhow distract the Dark Lord from killing him. This was his favourite song. What a cliché that the poor, miserable bastard would listen to such saturnine music.

I honestly don't care about anyone but those that I knew an appreciated and for those that were there, those that understood what I understood. And the regret is too great for me, the wish to see them much too fiery. The ups and downs in this song seem to twist my soul and the knowledge, more than ever, that I'm powerless, the impossibility of everything makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I slowly sit on the floor with my back against the door and the ray of light falls over me like a warm blanket, getting into my eyes, blinding me, making me want to shut them. But I don't, I keep them wide opened, force them to fight the instinctual, welcome the pain, hang to it, ask her to clear the thoughts. I want to see them, my wife, my child, my son and my friend, my parents…

The song draws to an end; trying to gain last grains of optimism it is failing, falling back into sombre certainty that the world isn't what you thought it was when you were a child. A dark finality, a fact, a decided fate that we all walk to like sheep - death, oblivion. The bright light draws tears from my eyes, they gather under my eyelids wanting to spill over and make a fool of me, I wipe them with the sleeve of Weasley's maroon shirt.

I'm startled by the loud knocks in the door behind me. I didn't even realise that the song has ended. There still is music downstairs but I don't recognize this piece, something modern perhaps.

"May I come in?" the mudblood's voice cries from the other side of the door.

Her voice is so bland, no musicality, no beauty, just low, unrefined, hoarse tones. I get up from the floor and turn to the door looking at it as if I could see the girl. The music in the background isn't bad, still classical and not as dark as the former, evidently modern by the sound of it. I would like to make the girl wait, let her boil a little wondering whether I escaped, but to what use, I would only extend her stay around me.

"Yes you may." I say and she tries the door knob slowly as if entering a monster's lair. I move away from the door to make room for her and there she is in front of me. She turns those round eyes up at me and for a moment I know she is scared seeing me look down at her, towering over her. I do not react; I just continue looking at her as expressionless as I can. She blinks and opens her mouth stupidly still with the door knob in her hand and frozen in the action of walking through the door. I allow a small smile and she looks away. I take my time to observe her, sinking in the annoyance that her face instils in me. The rather visible overbite that makes her upper lip jut out over the other like a bird's beak, making her already much to full lips look utterly vulgar, the nose that is too small and without character, the eyes, round and brown like a dog's and the cheekbones, much to high under her eyes and spotted with freckles that on her ghostly pale skin look more like dirt than beauty marks. And her small height, those small shoulders, that long, disproportioned neck and the hair, oh dear Circe, the hair is a tangled, shapeless mass a million shades of brown with highlights of greenish blond, like a muddy puddle that has been thread over by too many feet. Such hair shouldn't exist in the genetic makeup of humans, it can only belong on a harpy's head and judging by her personality I wouldn't be surprised to find that she has some dubious ancestry.

The missus looks back at me this time seemingly determined, frowning and crushing her lower lip between her teeth.

"Will you please move away…" it's not a demand, nor a polite question, it's a hiss. I smile and move away, making an exaggerated flourish with my hand towards the room.

"Would I ever deny such a polite request?"

She looks at me with thinned lips and walks to the centre of the room. She wears those horribly vulgar muggle trousers that she is so fond of and she has some sort of scarf wrapped intricately around her bust and tied in a knot above her right shoulder. She looks like a tribe woman, the only discordance are the pink, fuzzy house slippers. Ghastly.

"I have come to take you down to eat." She declares trying to look imposing despite her appearance.

"Oh, have you? I thought this was your husband's task. Where is he I wonder?" I say enjoying the tightening around her eyes.

"He is…not available. I will do it today." Her eyes glisten slightly as she looks curiously at me. "Do you feel sick?" she asks me frowning. I'm surprised by her inquiry and my face shows it.

"Sick? Why would I ever be sick, Madame?" I ask her with the same mocking tone I know she hates. Her mouth thins and puckers out looking more than ever like a bird's beak.

"You are pale and your eyes are red." She spats out annoyed. "Like you said last week, you are a responsibility, unfortunately, and like you said I can't afford gossip, problems." If only you'd know that the reason my eyes are so is as pathetic as yours.

"Ah, the famed sincerity! Thank you. I can't say I get the same treatment from your husband; it's why I asked you why he was indisposed. I prefer his hypocrisy, it is much more entertaining." I look at her for a moment as her face looses its former anger and softens into a look of pain. "Won't you bring him here, and save both of us the distress of having to spend time together?" She doesn't answer, but turns around and walks to the windows. She pulls the gossamer curtain and looks out for a moment. She chuckles and it is the manliest sound I ever heard from a woman - dark and throaty.

"You are so indiscreet it sickens me. When two people are fighting you sit perched at the window like a nosy old woman only to bait me afterwards."

"I have nothing to contemplate save for the walls and the two of you and as I said you are not as entertaining as your young man."

"I suppose I should take it as a compliment."

"Why would you?" I shrug a little and she looks at me strangely and then sighs walking back to the door.

"Never mind, I'm tired of fighting, as you just heard I had a lot of it to last me a while. Let's just get this over with…" She moves in front of me and I follow because even if I am childishly tempted to be stubborn and difficult, the room, the loneliness, being confined to stay in here day and night is even more hard on me than Azkaban, because I can see the world outside, I can still remember the wind on my face when I was moved from place to place after my release. Azkaban swallows the world, like a black hole it absorbs the knowledge of everything else, it is greedy and possessive, it hates competition and as everything else this is a double edged knife, if you could keep the knowledge of the world outside madness wouldn't be far. But here, this dark, old manor is transparent and gives me glimpses of what I don't have, of what I can't reach.

"I see you are unpleased with the given conditions…" I hear the girl's voice and look at her, she doesn't look back at me, she walks in front of me, head held high, feeling duty-bound to act the lady of the manor. I would give anything to remember her who I am; I'd give anything to be able to earn what I lost.

"You think I should?" My voice bounces off the thick walls of the hallway in echoes. She chuckles again but doesn't turn around and I'm still regaled by the view of her backside with those horrifying trousers and the pink slippers on her feet.

"If you think you should I can provide you with a change of scenery anytime you want. I'm sure that Azkaban is truly unforgettable."

"Madame, with _no_ due respect, I'm starting to believe you enjoy my company." I laugh and her shoulders travel up to her ears in frustration. She stops and turns to face me.

"Enjoy your company?"

"Yes, you always provoke me; you are the one that starts the arguments every time we come across each other. What else would I believe?"

"How dare you presume anything about me? You don't know me!" She gesticulates in front of me, a dark shadow against the light coming from an unknown source.

"I don't need to know you girl! It's enough to look at you to know in what hypocritical and petty ideals you are wallowing." I keep my cool or at least I try to. She, on the other hand, is not as controlled as she had been the last time I saw her, she is so obvious in her anger that it irks me even more. As always she pulls out her wand from one of the sleeves of her dreadful shirt and walks to me.

"You know nothing of this world; you feel nothing, understand nothing. You are locked in that small, outdated mind of yours; dismissing everything you don't understand, being afraid of what you don't understand. Old and decrepit, never letting go of his obsessions, running from the truth, unable to understand reality…You, you are weak and old and unreasonable and I pity you!" She stabs me in the throat with her wand and now she's gone too far. Her words gnaw at my nerves and her breath on my face makes me sick. She has no limit, she does not know discipline and her idealism is like a poison, the poison that the Griffindors have been fed with for thousands of years.

I grab her thin wrist in my hand and remove the wand from my throat, trying to keep my mind clear of violent thoughts, though I can see the eerie lights from the collar illuminating her small face. She makes a sound in her throat and looks wide eyed at me. A small sting shoots from the collar down my spine, a warning, the first warning that, if I'm not careful, will be followed by another and another, more powerful than the former, until I fall in a twitching mass on the floor at the mudblood's feet. I keep my mind as clear as I can, trying to ignore the ever growing pain while clutching her wrist harder, frightening her more.

"After all those years of dealing with _us _haven't you learned that we are anything but weak, decrepit, feeble or cowardly or whatever other wise saying you want to use. Haven't you learned that we have been educated to control everything about us, down to the very last detail? Would you not deduct from this that I am capable of causing you immense pain, both physical and otherwise, despite the collar?"

The pain is growing ever more acute - a thousand knives drive through my flesh. I try all my best not to hate the girl, not to despise her, to think of any redeeming quality she might have but it only delays the collar from making me faint, the pain is horrible and the hand that clutches her pale wrist shakes. She never lets go of her wand despite the pain she obviously feels. Her knuckles are white in their death grip around the smooth wood and I look at that small, unimposing object of power hungrily. I miss the feel of control, of power and safety that a wand gives.

My eyes fall back on her face and in the insanely flickering lights of my collar I see glimpses of her expression – it is a combination of controlled fear and strange curiosity. Her brows furrow a little and as she tries to escape me a stomach churning pain flows through me in sickening waves and I let go of her hand falling against the wall behind me. She stays there unmoved, staring at me as is her habit. The collar is not flashing any longer and the hallway sinks into its usual darkness.

"I suppose I can't _deduct _much now, can I?" She whispers with a hint of pride, as if she won some kind of war and I suppose that, judging by the lack of control she has over her husband, this is a victory to her, she needs someone like me, who is forced to obey her.

Her wand is trained on me and even if I can't see her face I know she is smiling. Two women ever antagonised me to such degree that I wanted to slap them across the face; one is - more or less obviously – Bellatrix, and the other is missus Granger. I despise the brutish men that like to rough up the fair sex from time to time and it seems that this stupid mudblood has reduced me to what I despise.

"Come, it can't be that bad! You have seen worse, haven't you? Get up!" She is smiling now, widely and full of satisfaction.

"Things will change, Miss Granger. It's only a matter of time until I learn how to control the collar…Just you wait." The pain is gone quickly, as if my veins didn't burn with liquid fire just moments ago. I push myself away from the wall and walk to her, as per habit she backs away from me and frowns; the reaction is instinctual, I know it, she is like a dog that despite its physical superiority, barks at a harmless house snake because it knows that the harmless house snake might as well be a viper or a cobra.

"The only way to control the collar is for you to love me…" She accentuates the word 'love' with a grimace of utter loath and starts laughing with gusto. "Oh, dear God! Ha, ha…'_love'!" _She keeps laughing and turns away from me.

"I think you are a very happy person, content with your life and pleased of everything, you friends, your house…" I wait, I let her calm down, let everything sink in so that what follows would have a more entertaining effect. "…your love life…"

She stops laughing and straightens her back, trying to appear serious as she always does when the situation is not in her favour.

"I am happy!" she says as if only the declarative tone would convince me.

"You see, Miss Granger there are other shades of feeling than love or hate in the man's soul and mind. People are not as simple as you think, not as simple as you are used too from your circle of friends."

"Would you just stop this useless tirade…"

"Not useless." I interrupt her and surprisingly she stops speaking and looks attentively at me. "Reality is not useless; opening your eyes to the real, harsh world with all its ugly complexities is the biggest gift one can be given." I don't know why I tell her this; it's not as if I would willingly teach her about the world. Perhaps I just can't help yearning to shatter into pieces those rose coloured glasses she wears everyday on her ugly little nose.

"You are the last person I would want to learn anything from. I would never change my ideals. I am the happiest, most pleased person you ever met! Now, walk in front of me please and let's get this over with, I'm busy." She lifts the bothersome nose in the air and smiles condescendingly. I walk closer to her and before obeying her command and standing in front of her I stop and bend down to her level, for no other reason than to intimidate her. It has effect; her small frame gets even smaller as she shrinks away from me, a small, almost inaudible gasp escaping her when she touches the wall behind her. I whisper down to her and she throws me one of her killer, dark stares.

"Busy with going after your young Weasley?" She blinks up at me and turns her face away, looking down the corridor; I continue whispering darkly into her mane of hair. "When I said you were happy I was referring to you ignorance. You have no idea how much I wished for this state of blissful stupidity you are wallowing into, to see only the extremes of life, the various, kaleidoscopically shades in between to be completely unknown to me. I thought that's where happiness lied but now I'm starting to doubt this old though of mine. You know why, Miss Granger?" I wait for her answer and ask her again and again and not until she shakes her head do I continue. "Because I see that even you, with your background and former social status realise something isn't quite right. I can see right through you, I can see that there are things you know but won't admit even to yourself. How happy are you now, Miss Granger?"

III

She turned the small silver switch of the DVD player as far as it went to the right with one hand while the other worked furiously at her bottom lip, pulling and pinching the thin skin repeatedly. The eerie music filled the tall hall of the manor and her hairs stood on end, the song coiling tightly into her soul, constricting her airways.

She lowered herself on the rug in front of the extinguished fireplace staring into the black, dead embers. Satie's Gnossienne fitted her mood and in the same time accentuated it but it was a strange thing, the awareness of her situation given by the mixed feelings of pain and uncertainty made her feel better.

She was more aware of _his _presence than ever, he was so alive in her house, on her territory that she could almost visualise him walking around in his room lie a lion in his cage. How she hated him, how she wanted him out of the house, how she hated that she couldn't control the situation and not even her own reactions. She thought that she will somehow solve the problem and if not that she will cope with it but it was harder and harder to even walk into her own home knowing _he_ was up there everyday, every night.

Everything else was perfect, her life was beautiful, her boyfriend and future husband was everything she ever wished for and more, her friends were perfect, she was an Auror like she wished but yet something was not quite right.

She ran her hand through her tangled curls and closed her eyes. She was repeating _his _words; this was his influence, his negativity that permeated the air like black ink. Of course something wasn't quite right, _he _was there, that is what felt wrong, that is where those unknown feeling came from. She thought of all possible ways to get him out of the house, all possible loopholes that she could use in order to bend the insane law. She decided to talk to professor McGonagall as soon as possible, she could help her, she might advise her.

The song ended and she took a deep calming breath. The first thing she needed to do was talk to Ginny and find Ron. She hasn't seen Ginny or Harry for months and maybe this was a good time to pay them a visit. She didn't even know where they had moved since Harry wanted to reveal the mansion on their wedding day. Until then all she could do was wait and simply call "Potter Residence" in the floo whenever she needed to talk to Ginny. The name was traceable through the floo network for a select few in their tight circle of friends and acquaintances so wherever the Potters were if they had an active fireplace nearby they were reachable.

She stood up from the rug and walked to the DVD player pushing the _repeat_ button. The endearing and in the same time eerie song started again and she walked back to the fireplace feeling just a little more determined. After checking her appearance in the large baroque mirror above the fireplace and lighting the fire she threw floo powder into the flames. She called her request a few times and in moments Ginny's face appeared in the green billows.

"'Mione, are you okay? What's happened?" Ginny asked her and she felt sick to the stomach for some reason.

"Is…is Ron there?"

Ginny turned her head to the right and when looking back at Hermione her face was tensed.

"I was trying to find a moment to call you but you were quicker. What happened? He came here so upset and angry. Harry is out with him in the gardens trying to calm him down. Is this all because of him, because of Malf…"

"Shhh, don't even say his name, please Ginny. So, Ron is not nearby to hear this, is he?"

"No, I told you he is out into the garden with Harry."

"So you are at the Burrow?" Hermione asked and for a fraction of second a strange shadow passed over Ginny's face.

"Yes…we're at the Burrow." Ginny sighed and looked behind her again. "Listen, 'Mione, I…"

"Ginny, this is stupid. Let's meet somewhere where we can talk in more detail. I haven't seen you in so long and you know how I hate talking on the floo like this. It's too impersonal. I'll come over right now." Said Hermione wanting nothing more than to know where Ron is and when will he return. Ginny sighed and looked up with a strange expression. Hermione could read anxiety on Ginny's face and it was startling because usually the girl was down to earth and self-contained.

"Hermione…I…"

"Ginny, what's wrong? We'll go straight up to your room and lock ourselves in like we did when we were in school. We'll talk there, Ron won't know I came, if that's what worries you. I bet he said he doesn't want to see me. It's like him to do that, but he'll get over it, he always does. He'll come back home and we'll talk it through. Tomorrow we won't remember a thing and we'll make fun of all this silliness." She broke into a hysterical laugh and felt pathetic for reciting such nonsense.

She kept staring at the fire and the small face floating in the licking flames when a strangely familiar voice saying something unintelligible was heard from the background. Ginny's eyes widened and she excused herself disappearing for a short and awkward moment only to appear again in less than a minute. "Who was that?" Asked Hermione bewildered. She could swear she knew the voice.

"Err, dad, it was dad…Hermione, I'll meet you. I'm so sorry, it's just that I don't have enough time and I'll have to see you someplace of my choice. Neutral, you know, to avoid the public. I'll send you a port key, if that's all right." Ginny said it as if it was common knowledge that she had to accept the improvised arrangement.

"Why can't I come over?" asked Hermione watching the younger girl that seemed to be in an unexplainable rush to get things over.

"The house is a mess 'Mione. I'm sorry but if mum sees you here she'll be ashamed and will fret and will drive me round the bend too."

"Ginny, the Burrow is always a mess, but I love it like that. I wouldn't like it different." Hermione was very puzzled by her friend's behaviour and she could only blame it on Ron. "So, it's Ron, he told you he doesn't want to see me there, is it?"

"Yes, that's it, 'Mione. I'm so sorry, I feel like an arse right now, to be honest. I can't lie to you…" There still was something unsaid, something odd in Ginny, Hermione could tell but she couldn't understand what the reason was. "I'll make a port key and send it to you via owl mail, alright? We'll meet somewhere close by, a nice forest or something like that. Alright?"

"Yeah, I'll wait."

"You won't wait long, promise. Hold on."

Hermione walked counting each step to the nearest armchair and sank between the lush pillows. She was thankful that Ginny didn't have time to face the crowds on Diagon Alley, she was not herself and the very idea of all those stares and whispers, smiles, demands and congratulations was making her lightheaded.

She waited for the owl with that same disturbing awareness of _his _presence close to her. There was no sound to give him away, the house was like a tomb most of the time and the life he lived, she concluded, had taught him to walk like a cat, with silent and well planned steps. She could live with the false impression that he wasn't there but that, more than anything, made her feel like the oblivious sparrow hopping happily around the nose of a hidden, stalking cat.

He was beaten down, humiliated, drained by the life he lived in prison, but yet it was still him. Seeing him in normal clothes, shaved and groomed brought memories of her torture, his expressionless face and cold eyes held the same hollowness she saw that night. She could see nothing but void in his eyes, a frozen, soulless void. This is what she feared; this is why she feared him. She feared what she couldn't understand and he was beyond her comprehension, like a bizarre creature from another dimension he defied the natural laws of her world.

The clock was ticking the seconds one by one dutifully and convincing herself that she wanted to make sure he wasn't up to something not quite right she rose from the chair and walked to the wide staircase. Looking up the coldness of the marble stairs she felt horribly alone. Each step she made up the stairs echoed through the house loudly adding to the forlorn feeling she had.

She tried to walk like the cat she compared him with and the dark, carpeted hallway muffled the noise that otherwise she would have made. She felt proud of herself when she arrived in front of his door and with a tremble of anticipation in her heart she placed her ear against the polished wood. At first there was no sound and she though that maybe he fell asleep. After one minute her last grain of patience left her and she looked through the keyhole. She saw him immediately because the door was facing the window and he was sitting at the table placed there. The image was blurry and unclear through the tiny space but she could see him from the side looking lost in thought out the window. He was drumming his fingers on the table and rubbing his chin nervously. His hair fell untied just bellow his shoulders and his eyebrows were knitted together making his eyes look as if they belonged on a bird of prey.

In the back of her mind she registered a small scratching sound but not until he jump from his chair and looked out the window did she reacted. His reaction startled her and she ran away from the door and into the wall behind, her heart racing in her chest. She heard his steps approaching the door and she felt suffocated by the narrow hallway and by his invisible presence so close to her. She sighed deeply and walked away, not caring if he heard her steps or not, remembering that she was the one with authority now, not him, never him.

She returned to the large drawing room and opened the window letting in the sound of crickets, late summer wind and a very impatient owl.

The port key Ginny send her was a small red button placed in an envelope. The unremarkable object pulled her in and she glided down on a wide path through a forest. The foliage was thick and before her feet could touch the ground she though she saw, around a curve of the path and behind the crown of some trees, the gilded spears of a tall gate.

Ginny wasn't there yet and she had time to realise that if what she was feeling now wasn't a déjà vu she had most definitely been there before. She walked in the direction she thought she saw the gate with the same combination of fear and anticipation she had been experiencing for the past few hours.

Her breath caught in her throat after she turned the corner in the path. Her mouth dry she froze in place, cold beads of sweat rolling on her forehead. The steps she was slowly walking towards the object of her amazement were uncontrolled and unconscious because to her horror and amazement she suddenly found herself in front of the iron coils of a gate at the foot of a broad drive. She knew what would follow, she knew that the image would frighten her but again her limbs were acting against her will. Her right hand rose and lit slowly as if in a dream on the cold, dark iron. She instinctively drew her hand away as the familiar abstract furls of the wrought-iron gate twisted and contorted into a terrifying face that spoke in a metallic voice words she remembered all too well. "State your purpose!"

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_A bit of a cliffie here but it was getting too long and I had to split it. I recommend reading this accompanied by Eric Satie's Gnossiene no. 1. It is a wonderfull piece and it is also part of the Painted Veil OST so it kind of fits the oddity my two fav characters are living at this point. Just copy&paste(no spaces 'course) this - http: / www . youtube . com /watch?v=Bxw8Sah5uXU and enjoy._

_Thank you so much for reading and for (hopefully) enjoying!_


	9. The Elms Know

_Thank you for all your reviews, favs and alerts. Every single one brings immense joy because this story is very close to my heart - sharing it and seeing that it is appreciated is more than I can ask for. Unfortunately my schedule is very chaotic and I can't post often, I am terribly sorry and I am doing my best to write the new chapters as often as I can._

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**The Elms Know**

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_"There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something. You certainly usually find something, if you look, but it is not always quite the something you were after." JRR Tolkien_

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The gate was staring expectantly at her through iron wrought eyes. A fleeting thought eased the dark atmosphere - the magical iron gate looked a bit like Lucius, it was frowning and cold and it had a metallic voice.

What was going on?

What was Ginny up too? Was it really Ginny she spoke to earlier? Was it the case for her to be alarmed and react somehow to this abnormal situation?

She took her wand out of her coat and walked back a few paces, her eyes never leaving the gate's eyes. The metal coils were pulsating, moving slightly, like snakes waiting to strike.

A small wind rustled the leaves in the trees around her and she fixed her eyes on the pathway opening in front of her, on the tall birch trees concealing the manor. The silver trees swayed their autumn kissed leaves in the whispering wind inducing peace and quiet but her auror instincts were in full alert, she was ready to strike at any moment, the certainty that there was something wrong enveloping her and giving her power.

The familiar sound of apparition startled her but the sight of the person that materialized behind the gates only helped to strengthen her suspicions that whoever she spoke to earlier wasn't Ginny.

"Hermione I'm so sorry for this. There was no other way to do it. Harry must not know and I needed to speak to you so badly."

Ginny looked ashamed and apologetic but yet Hermione couldn't believe her. In front of her stood an enemy under the deceiving effects of Polyjuice Potion, or so she thought.

The whole day her mind worked itself more and more towards paranoia. Everything around her seemed odd, out of place as if her world had shifted into another dimension.

She kept her wand trained on the person that looked, moved and spoke like Ginny but certainly couldn't be her.

"You are under arrest for impersonating an auror. Place your hands upon the gate and do not move!" She spoke with apparent confidence even though she was shaking on the inside.

"Hermione it's me, Ginny! I..."

"Shut up! Place your hands on the gate and do not move!" She started walking towards the gate with slow deliberate steps, never taking her eyes off of Ginny. The redhead was staring at her like she was mad and Hermione was starting to have doubts. Whoever it was under the disguise had formidable acting skills.

"Damn it Hermione, it's me!"

"I said shut up! Put your hands on the gate, you are under arrest!"

"Hermione, are you off the rocker? It's me..." Ginny lifted her hands up and approached the gate, Hermione jerked the wand furiously towards her.

"I said, put your hands on the gate. Now!" Hermione insisted becoming hysterical.

"'Mione, please, get yourself together! Look at me.."

"Accio wand!" Hermione commanded and Ginny's wand flew from her coat straight into Hermione's waiting hand.

"Hermione!" Ginny pleaded flailing her arms around in desperation.

"Put your hands on the gate! Why can't you understand? You are under arrest!" Hermione screamed at Ginny but when the girl refused to obey her command she lost control. The events of the day taking over her and the certainty that she was faced with a vicious and dangerous criminal more real than ever, she pointed her wand at her friend, straightened her back and uttered the first thing that came to her mind.

"Incarcerous!"

The flickering stream of light shot from her wand straight at Ginny's chest but in stead of coiling around the girl was instead sucked in by the gates and then with incredible swiftness ricocheted back to Hermione.

In a deafening sound of scraping metal the gate shot the Incarcerous straight to her chest and she found herself hogtied and flat on her back staring befuddled at the thick green canopy above her.

"Hermione! Oh shit, you and your pigheadedness! I told you it was me!" Hermione heard the clanking of iron and then hurried steps coming towards her.

Both her's and Ginny's wand flew out of her hand as the spell wrapped around her and now she was getting hysterical without the protection. She started to wriggle against the restraints instinctually even though she knew that these were magical ropes, impossible to break through physical means.

Ginny's face appeared above her with a wide, oddly sincere grin. Hermione's eyes travelled to the girl's left hand that held both wands.

"Don't even think about it madame!" Laughed Ginny following her calculating gaze. No one but Ginny called Hermione that and even though she resented the endearment it brought some semblance of relief in her heart. "The wand stays with me until you get yourself together!"

"What the hell was that? Did you curse me?" She asked harshly though her tone had no effect from her undignified position on the ground.

Ginny bent down over her and grabbed her shoulders starring her in the eyes with that same unnerving sincerity.

"No, madame, that was the gate..."

"The gate...?"

"Yep, the gate. If standing in front of it you attack a member of the family that owns the grounds the gate shoots the spell back at you."

"Owns..." Hermione frowned and putting things together looked back wide eyed at Ginny.

"But...but this is Malfoy manor...Oh dear!" the world came crushing down on her with the realization of what was going on. Everything that she could not understand about the new Potter residence fell into place. The pieces of the puzzle that formed itself inside her head and drove her mad with questions seemed to fall into place. The question remained. Why did they hide this from her?

Despite the familiar light in Ginny's eyes and despite all the things that felt genuine about her Hermione's years of training as an auror made her doubt and think through everything before coming to a conclusion.

"Prove that you are Ginny Weasley." she spoke with less bite in her voice.

* * *

"Did you really need any reminders of that silly moment of yours? And did we really have to sit around in front of the gates for an hour until the effect of that imaginary Polyjuice Potion would wear off?"

Ginny asked Hermione with a lopsided smile handing her wand back. Hermione pocketed the precious object and huffed in annoyance.

"Singing Alabama Song and toppling over a banister in a pub is something that few know about me and you are among those few. Remember, I Obliviated Seamus the next morning..."

Hermione looked at Ginny from the corner of her eye, still shaken and still frowning. "And yes, I fear potions and spells and hexes. This is who I am Ginny, I have lived like this since I was eleven, I have trained for three years which only added to my...err...prudence."

"Paranoia, Hermione, it's paranoia." Ginny smiled tightly and looked at her as if she was a lunatic. "Come on let's go over there, the boys are in the house and Harry will nag me for days if he finds out I spoiled his big secret." Ginny pointed to their left.

After an hour of negotiation Hermione let herself be convinced that Ginny was no escaped death eater in disguise and they passed the gates and walked the long winding path that served as a very pompous, yet forbidding introduction to the even more pompous and forbidding Malfoy manor and grounds. She could see the crenels and pointy roofs of the building up ahead, looming over the treetops.

They were in a small clearing just at the edge of the birch forest and Ginny obviously brought her here to kill two birds with one stone - she wanted Hermione to know about the manor and she had something personal and important to tell her. Hermione suspected it was about Ron and her stomach was clenching painfully at the thought that maybe Ginny discovered him cheating.

The clearing was beautiful and the last sprigs of summer were still green looking breathtaking against the silvery white of the birch trees and their russet leaves.

She remembered the ghostly white shapes of the trees from the horrible evening they were captured and brought here. The horror she felt that dark night in contrast with the pure beauty that surrounded her now was chilling but exciting, dangerous.

This place had something about it, an energy that she couldn't understand, couldn't identify. She remembered being infused with it then as she was now, so powerful that it pulsated from the very ground.

"Nice forest..." said Hermione walking into the clearing and looking around in wonder. "So many birch trees, I've never seen so many..."

"Yeah, it's great, I know. This part is all birch and some oak and in the back elm, lots of elms, huge and thick, hundreds of years old we think." Ginny was speaking quietly as if afraid to disturb the perfect peace of the wood. "There's even a vineyard with all sorts of grapes. Now its taken over by weeds as tall as me, Harry says we need to bring a specialist to take care of it. We have no idea what to..."

"Ginny," Hermione interrupted the babbling. "what is it, what is going on?"

"Oh, Hermione, how I hate these things, it's just so annoying..." Ginny stopped fidgeting and approached her. Hermione's heart was leaping, she was almost certain it was about Ron.

"Is this about Ron?" she almost squeaked and hated herself for it. Ginny raised a brow and looked at her strangely.

"What, Ron? Oh no, it's got nothing to do with him!" Hermione exhaled. "It's just this...thing we have a problem with and Harry doesn't seem to understand or even notice anything, but I do and I'm going out of my mind. Since he doesn't seem to hear the things I hear I considered I've gone bonkers, that was until two days ago when I got evidence that it was not all in my head like he says.

I didn't know who else to ask, I thought of McGonagall but then, you know how it is now that she is Headmistress - it would be pretty stupid to go to her with such a stupid thing. I tried solving the problem myself but it is beyond me. To be honest I don't even know what the bloody hell it is. It freaks me out so much I am even afraid to talk about it."

"Ginny, first things first. Before you tell me what it is that bothers you please explain what is going on here." she grabbed the fidgeting girl by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Malfoy manor? Is Harry in his right mind?"

Ginny frowned at her.

"Hermione this is not about the bloody place. After all we've been through we deserve a place like this." Ginny said defensively.

"Yeah, Ginny, I know, you do, we all do. It's just that..." Hermione looked up at the dark rooftops and frowned. "...aren't you afraid to sleep here at night?"

"Well it has been thoroughly cleansed. It was no problem at night until...well...until a couple of weeks ago."

"Why no one told me? Why is this such a bloody big secret?"

"No one knows, Hermione!"

"I see Ron knows!" Hermione returned.

"Ron's Harry's best friend, and Harry needed a man's hand in this."

"I was supposed to be their best friend and, above all, I am Ron's future wife. Don't I have a right to know?"

"Hermione we are planning to have a surprise wedding in here, one to be remembered by our friends and families. This will be our gift to them, a spectacular, one of a kind wedding reception and for the beauty of it all must be surprised at how the manor will look then. It will represent the change that took place even here, the shift from darkness to light. Malfoy manor will be Potter manor, from darkness and fear to light and peace. We want our wedding to be a symbol of that, we want to do this for the people, for this new era that is just dawning. It is amazingly beautiful Hermione, don't you see?" Ginny's eyes sparkled with joy as she clapped her hands together.

"Yes, Ginny, Light. But why was I kept in the dark about this."

"Only Harry, Ron and me know...and now you. You know, that feeling of amazement, of fulfilment when you acknowledge that what you have worked on for years has been accomplished? Harry wanted you to feel it. He knew that if you were to find out about all this you would immerse yourself so deep into planning that the actual event would leave you cold. And above all else he wanted, for once, to do something by himself for the rest of us. He feels he owes us so much..." Ginny shook her head, deeply impressed by Harry's altruism.

"He owes us? Ginny we are here because of him, if anything we owe our lives to him!"

"You really don't understand. He says that you all helped him so much when really this whole evil was something that was his to deal with, and not drag everyone into the darkness with him." Ginny's eyes were shimmering with brimming tears.

"Ginny, it's...I can't believe he feels this way..." Hermione looked deep into Ginny's eyes, words leaving her. There was something more to this, so much more that it eluded her with its sheer complexity.

"He feels extremely guilty for putting so many people in danger, mothers, fathers, children, sisters...brothers. He wants to make it up to everyone. It is terrible how much guilt he feels, even towards me...about Fred... That is why he does all these things for the wizarding world, that is why he wants to organize this event, that is why he bought this place, the most expensive residence, for us...for me..."

The girl was fighting back tears and playing with a ring on her index finger. The ring looked very expensive, thought Hermione, it was filigree gold and platinum encrusted with what looked like a diamond in the middle and a multitude of colourful stones spiralling around it. It looked so familiar, thought Hermione, but before any memory could come back to her the girl shoved her hand in the pocket of her cardigan and looked away into the forest.

That is when Hermione noticed her clothes. Gone were the simple jeans and sweaters Ginny sported only months before, gone was the boyish look and simple, unassuming style she was fond of.

She had been so shaken by the whole 'Malfoy's snarling gate' business that she didn't even register her friend actually looked like a woman, a stylish, striking woman.

Her hair was an amazing, shiny mass of scarlet waves contrasting against the emerald of her expensive looking cardigan. She even had lipstick on and was wearing knee high leather boots to finnish this uncharacteristic femme fatale look.

She scanned her friend once more from head to toe in appreciation but decided against making any comments because despite her appearance Ginny seemed deeply shaken by something.

"Alright, no matter. I'll talk to him about this..."

"Don't be upset Hermione, I just think that right now we should not talk about this, he should not know right now. He doesn't know I'm here with you, I told him and Ron that I am out for a walk around the grounds."

Hermione could not understand what was all this secrecy about and she was desperate to find out.

"Ginny, come on, let's just go inside and settle this opened, all four of us. It's not a big deal." Said Hermione and turned on her heels towards the path to the manor waiting for them outside the clearing.

"No! Hermione wait!" Ginny cried and grabbed her by the arm. Hermione turned around swiftly trying to escape from her grip.

"Ginny what is going on?"

"Nothing is going on...I'm just not sure this is the right thing to do..."

Ginny was looking odd she decided. Indeed Hermione's first instinct was to wrench herself from the tight grip, storm inside the manor and demand some well deserved explanations but she felt the oddity of the situation looming over them like a dark cloud, or rather, like the very dark manor ahead.

Diplomacy was the right course of action. Again she remembered that she was a controlled, rational human being that understood the underlying aspects of everything before coming up with a strategy.

"Alright, alright, not now, I won't go now. But I will have to talk to Harry about this at some point."

Ginny released her arm and relaxed smiling softly.

"Yeah, sure! It's just that before you do you need to know some things and also I need to tell you why I practically whisked you away like this." Ginny laughed nervously.

"Please tell me already." urged Hermione.

"I really didn't want to ask you again, especially now that you have so many things on your plate, what with the new house, the auror job and Malfoy on top of all. I had to talk to someone and you are the only one that I can trust won't tell Harry I asked for help. I really don't want to upset him now, poor thing..."

"Ginny, for Merlin's sake tell me."

Ginny nodded and palled.

"It sends chills down my spine even thinking about it. Harry, as I said, thinks I've gone barmy but the sound...oh bloody hell...the sound is like nothing I heard before...I can't sleep at night, it's that bad." Ginny looked in the direction of the manor before taking a deep breath and continuing. "And what freaks me out is that Harry doesn't hear a thing! I wake him up at night but he doesn't hear a thing. At first he was walking around the house, opening the windows, even going out into the garden searching for the bloody thing, now he just ignores me and goes back to sleep."

Hermione was getting tired of this. What could make the brave Ginny, after the things she has seen and experienced, so lilly-livered? What could be worse than the fear they lived with before the war?

"What is it Ginny? A Dementor, pixies, trolls, a muggle car alarm, a bloody cat in heat?" Hermione's joke was met only with a small quirk of the lips.

"I think I could have dealt with a Dementor, at least I know what it is and how to banish it. This is beyond me, I know nothing about it, until two weeks ago I thought it was a myth." Ginny took a deep breath and seemed to steel herself to say the words she feared so. "Hermione do you know anything about...about...fairies?"

"Fairies? Well I asked if there were pixies..." Hermione was dumbfounded why Ginny would be afraid of a wee prancing fairy.

"Not pixies Hermione!" Ginny threw her arms in the air offering a glimpse of the Weasley temper. "Not that kind Hermione, the other kind, the ancient ones, those from the legends...the...Si..." she seemed to be struggling with the word, whispering it while approaching Hermione. "The Sidhe." said Ginny so quietly that Hermione could barely make out the word.

"The Sidhe?" asked Hermione and Ginny jumped shushing her.

"Don't say the word so loud Hermione!"

The forest seemed to have suddenly grown very quiet, a perfect stillness enveloping them. It had nothing to do with Ginny's delusions about fairies, rationalized Hermione, the wind just stopped blowing.

"Ginny, those are legends of old, no one really believes those things anymore. Only superstitious fools fall for that, you are a modern rational witch Ginny, be realistic." Hermione almost scoffed at her friend. Ginny tightened her lips and two red spots bloomed on her cheeks.

"You try living with that bloody wailing for two weeks on end and we'll see how realistic you are afterwards."

"What wailing, who wails Ginny? You keep telling me this but you can't find it in you to just spit it out."

"At first I said it's a cat, but then it wouldn't stop and it had very precise hours, in the evening, at sunset especially and sometimes it would go again at night, around midnight. It didn't sound like a cat either, sometimes I thought it was a baby crying, sometimes like some sort of bird. I had moments when I thought it was only the wind but then it grew louder and I was sure it was a woman's voice..." Ginny hugged herself, a slight shudder running through her body. "One night..." Ginny continued after a small pause and a short intake of breath. "A couple of nights ago I was alone. Harry was out to a business diner with some ministry representatives from Yugoslavia. I thought that whatever it is it won't attack me inside the house and if I just fell asleep then I wouldn't hear it. But at midnight I woke up in those screams again. I tossed and turned but couldn't fall asleep again. I decided to just go out and see what the hell it is, deal with it on my own...So I took my wand and crept through the back foyer that leads to the back garden, to the elm forest. There was light everywhere, as if it was full moon but no moon was up that night, it was coming from somewhere else. It was foggy and the fog seemed to be the source of the light.

I tried to follow the cry and every time I thought I was close to it it was moving behind me and I was following it again only to hear it from the behind all over again. And then...I saw it, the fog cleared a little and I saw it...

At the edge of the elm forest we have a small gazebo and _the thing_ was sitting on one of the benches there. At first it looked like a woman hunched over and covered in a dark cloak so thinking it was a human being in a form or another, maybe a ghost, I called out. I could see it shaking as if she was crying and this time that cry was human, I was sure it was a ghost. I called again thinking that if I dealt with it it would eventually leave. It kept crying but suddenly it stopped and looked at me..." Ginny swallowed and bit her lips in anxiety. "It was not transparent like we know ghosts are, it was flesh and bone, I was close enough to see that everything about it was as real as you and me. But when it looked at me the thing's eyes were...were shinning, the eyes were like, I don't know, as if they were emanating that light, like it was coming from the thing's skull. I don't think I stood there for too long, a few seconds we just starred at each other and then I found it in me to run back to the house. That night it wailed even worse and it didn't stop until Harry came home."

Hermione was struck not by Ginny's story but by the fear that infused the girl more and more as she spoke.

"Ginny, the ectoplasm can, if well charged with energy and especially in the case of ghoul type entities, produce a rather convincing imitation of a material body. It does not mean that it is like us, or that it has a body. Because it has given you nightmares and that you are the only one who sees and hears it points to the fact that you might be dealing with a ghoul that has set its sights on you and feeds off of you, thus managing to manifest itself the way it does."

Ginny refused to accept the rational explanation shaking her head and chewing on her lip.

"That is what I thought too but then I realized that it did not drain me, I feel good, there is nothing wrong with me. When a ghoul sucks your energy, you feel it and it shows, trust me. I searched the library and found something in a book..." Ginny looked in the direction of the manor. "Come, let me show you the gazebo where the _thing_ was sitting."

* * *

The old lock clanked loudly as Hermione turned the key, the sound deepening the loneliness she always felt in the Peverell mansion. Peverrell mansion, her home, the future Weasley mansion. Just as herself the house was going to take Ron's surname, though unlike herself the house was an old bride that had been married before and probably wasn't at all impressed with the name she was to receive this time.

She clutched the book Ginny gave her and crossed the threshold, exchanging the cool darkness outside for the equally cold one inside. She stopped for a few seconds after closing the heavy door. She held her breath to listen to the quiet creaks and moans of the house hoping to hear anything that would make _his _ invisible presence known to her.

Nothing. Silence. She sighed and walked down the hallway to the drawing room. The light of the torches lined on the walls followed her, flaring to life as she passed them and dying down behind her, yielding the palm to the greedy darkness.

Everything Ginny told her replayed in her mind. Fact by fact, theory by theory and oddity by oddity whirled through her head like a maelstrom. Absentmindedly she passed through the darkened drawing room, entered the library, started the fire in the hearth and sat at the monstrous mahogany desk. The leather armchair squeaked under her weight – a sound that otherwise she found annoying now she couldn't even register.

She placed the heavy leather bound tome in front of her. Ginny had somehow dug up the thing from what was left of the Malfoy library after the manor had been ransacked by burglars and pruned by the Purification Team. Another of her usual forbidden thoughts passed her mind. She knew that whatever secrets the library and the whole manor had been hiding were not safe and she also knew it was better that most of the items had been destroyed but she couldn't silence the tiny voice that mourned the loss. A mourning that, she knew, had everything to do with her godforsaken curiosity. She would have given anything to have access to the Malfoy library before it's destruction...

Her finger treaded lightly on the symbol deeply engraved in the old leather cover of the book. She traced the symbol as if it was a finger labyrinth, following the spiralling lines in wonder.

It was a symbol she had seen before, she couldn't recall when or where exactly, all she knew was that she never payed too much attention to it as, in her modern and forward thinking mind, it belonged to a forgotten, obsolete world of wizard's fairy tales.

The symbol was formed of three spirals each connected to form a small triangle between them. It obviously represented some trinity god or goddess that had been worshiped by the celts.

Her index finger finally reached the triangle and she starred at it, her brain working strenuously to reach a conclusion.

Images and sensations assaulted her and once again she saw with her mind's eye the conversation she and Ginny had earlier.

Ginny took her to that gazebo and told her that after she saw the thing she searched what was left of the books for something meaningful and she found this grotesque tome about celtic mythology. Ginny was so convinced of the things she read there that Hermione not only accepted to take it upon herself to study the book but also had some of the girl's paranoia rubbed off on her.

The gazebo was located at the edge of a small hill that was covered with tall, thick elms – the forest Ginny told her about. Once there the redhead summarized what she read in the book and finally blurted out rather reluctantly that according to it what she saw was a banshee. Then Ginny went even further to say that she will fetch the book from the house and that she should stay outside so that Harry won't see her. Hermione didn't even make another try at her friend's stubbornness knowing full well that she won't be let inside the house and so she resorted to waiting. And pacing. And waiting. And freaking out...

Goosebumps prickled her skin as she remembered the eerie feeling of being watched by _something_ from between those shady elm trees. There was something alien there, something she could not understand, an energy that appealed and frightened, something arcane and never before seen but no less magnetic...

She turned the desk lamp on and opened the book gingerly. The binding creaked quietly like an old door and a sweet, pungent smell of decay hit her nostrils. She usually liked the smell of old books, the heady scent of knowledge, but this was different, this smelled like rotten wood, like mouldy organic stuff, like death.

She blocked the scent out and tried to concentrate on the words and symbols that sprawled in front of her.

The first pages were made up of a small introduction to what was called Faerie. She scanned the pages and concluded that the book considered this _Faerie_ another dimension, a place someone could enter on certain conditions that she didn't bother reading.

The next part consisted of chapters after chapters of sorting, categorization, classification, descriptions over descriptions, drawings and sketches of the denizens of Faerie. Each creature weirder and more nightmarish than the other walked, limped, hopped, flew or slithered before her in a twisted parade from hell.

The book was made of two parts, sorting the abominations into good and evil. Save for the actual Sidhe that were simply idealized people, too perfect to be real, too perfect not to be annoying, the rest of the creatures, good or bad, were hideous. There were those that bore the likeness of some creatures that she knew existed, like leprechauns or goblins but most of them were obviously the product of the infinitely resourceful collective imagination.

She read about the banshee, that was actually spelled bean-sidhe in the darned book, and was not impressed. Something about ancient bloodlines and Merovingians and all sorts of conspiracy inducing theories that she didn't want to have anything to do with.

These were things that she heard some people talk about and usually those that believed in such non-sense even in the magical world were considered loonies. Speaking of loonies, this was the kind of thing that the Lovegoods believed in.

Actually she could precisely remember an evening at The Three Broomsticks in her 5th year when after one too many beers Luna started babbling delusionally about Faerie and Fairy kings and queens, dynasties, Sidhe and fairy mounds... Mounds? Hills?

The image of the dark hill covered in elms rising behind the gazebo appeared in her mind. Hermione frowned, her mind was processing the disconcerting thought against her will as it was it's habit.

She scoffed quietly to herself and smiled. She closed the book with a thud and rose up from the desk. She was almost inclined to believe in an old-wives tale. Preposterous!

She needed a drink, she decided. She walked down to the kitchens to get a bottle of Ogden's and hated it. She needed someone to do this walking for her in such a huge house. Malfoy. She should put him to work. That's why he was here, right? To be reintroduced into society, to do some community service. She had no need to feel guilty for using him. Actually she was doing him a favour keeping him in her house and out of Azkaban. After the crimes he committed the punishment was nonexistent. This was not a punishment. For everything he did against muggles he deserved so much more, infinitely more than he got. She sneered in contempt thinking of him.

She was supposed to feed him but she wanted to let him starve for a while, after all he was used to that. Her hate for him was threefold at the end of this day, after their interaction and after again realising the harm his lot did to people like Ginny.

By now she was almost sure that Ginny, being used to always fear and always run from something, fabricated a new villain in the form of a celtic mythological creature. Harry still had those seizures and Ginny was almost good to be boxed and shipped to the psychiatric ward in St. Mungo's. She shook her head at her own thoughts as she walked back from the kitchens, bottle of Ogden's and glass clutched in a death grip.

Their lot destroyed them, she thought as she settled in the armchair in front of the fire in the library, glass of amber coloured whiskey in hand, the musty book forgotten on the desk.

Ginny needed a job, Ginny needed some friends, Ginny needed a life. Copped up in that gothic monstrosity of a house was turning her into a lunatic. A rather convincing lunatic as a matter of fact. No wonder Harry thought she was barmy.

She took a sip of whiskey that pleasantly burned its way down her throat. She was not used to drinking and she did not find the habit of turning to alcohol in time of emotional crisis flattering, yet her habit of doing uncharacteristically hedonistic things behind closed doors was winning over her sense of wright and wrong. _Bah, who'd know what I'm doing, who'd care..._

She closed her eyes and sat back with her head against the backrest of the chair. The fire crackled merrily, its warmth burning her cheeks softly. It was peaceful, it was good. Nothing was wrong, not in her life, not in Harry's or Ginny's. She just had to take her friend out one night, help her loosen up a bit. They were soon starting their auror work and Ginny needed a bit of fun before diving head first into missions, investigations, raids and reports. Ginny would stop imagining things when her time would be occupied with auror work.

Silence, peace, warmth, crackling of fire and ancient woodwork..._perfection... _The cry of that bird again. What was it called? A nightjar? The one that screamed two weeks ago when Malfoy was brought in.

_His_ face swam in front of her mind's eyes. What a strange man. Strange by looks and behaviour. A relic of a time passed, a dark eco of "the saintly days of yore", like Poe said.

How similar he and others like him were to Hitler. She wondered if they knew, she even wondered if Voldermort knew or if Hitler knew and, unknown to anyone, was influenced by Tom Riddle. The image of the pale monster clad in his thick robes, with his burning eyes and strange hands replaced Malfoy and she shuddered despite the warmth in the room.

She took another sip of whiskey and opened her eyes. The bird called again. She should go check on Malfoy. She should bring him down for diner. Soon he was going to have to start his tasks, she felt ready to release him from his room to fulfil his duties. Ron was right, the collar turned him into a harmless old man. Until she found the loophole that would help her get him out of her house she could at least stop fearing him.

She stood up, downed the rest of the whisky, defeated her procrastination and climbed the stairs to Malfoy's room.

The slight whisky buzz was making her bold and she decided to have a very serious talk with Malfoy about the possibility that some of his stuck up ancestors were still haunting the manor, scaring the wits out of the "blood-traitors" now inhabiting the place.

The hallway in front of his room was draughty for some reason. Odd, she thought. Maybe the autumn was coming sooner than expected.

She took the key to his room out of the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door. The sound of the ancient lock startled her again. Darned silence, darned alcohol induced paranoia.

The iron door knob was cool against her sweaty palm making her skin tingle with goosebumps.

She opened the door and her hair was blown away from her face by a light, cool breeze. The room was dark and she stood still for a moment, afraid to pass the threshold. Something was wrong she could feel it in the stillness of the night, she could smell it on the chilly wind. Her heart was pounding in her chest, crawling up her throat.

"Malfoy." She called into the darkness of his room. She received no answer. The silence was perfect as it always was in the house and her voice was loud and frightening in contrast with the stillness. "Lumos", she whispered and the livid light at the tip of her wand crept to the farthest corners of the room. The _empty _room. The effects of the alcohol were suddenly gone as panic overtook her.

"Malfoy, where the hell are you?"She called again, she received no answer again. She took a few hesitant steps inside the darkness of the room, looking left and right, afraid that he might be hiding somewhere waiting to club her to death with the curtain rod.

Pointing her wand towards the window she had her answer. The curtains were pulled apart, the windows wide opened, the bed dragged in front of them and balancing precariously on two legs and the gossamer shades were missing. She could spot a white bundle of some sort just on the windowsill. She inspected the entire room looking for him, thinking that maybe it was a diversion and he was waiting for her to approach the mysterious bundle and push her out the window.

After she was convinced that the room was empty she went straight for the tangle of cloth on the window sash. She already knew the answer before the light revealed the knotted gossamer shades that wrapped around one of the poles of the bed post and slithered out the window and into the garden outside. She grudgingly admired his ingenuity.

_He _had escaped. And what an escape, fit for a princess locked up in a tower.

She was annoyed, incensed, murderous. She kicked the bed in frustration and the object didn't even budge.

The bloody bird called again.


End file.
